


Snipes 'n' Shells

by sullenSniper



Series: Snipes 'n' Shells [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Original Character-centric, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 88,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenSniper/pseuds/sullenSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortimer Mundy is a happy-go-lucky Sniper whose aim is more than lacking. His best friend is a rookie Spy whose disguises are anything but. And their team at BLU... is a little bit off. Here at Teufort, our heroes create a new path for themselves, discovering hidden secrets, and learning about the power of friendship (or maybe not).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spy in the Base!

The blazing hot sun stares down at the barren horizon from high above. Save for the occasional cactus or desert eagle, the desert appears completely devoid of life. A tumbleweed lightly bounces by, carried by the dry winds, until the sudden force of a passing vehicle pushes it farther and faster. The first sign of sentient life seen in this desert, and he drives a camper van.

The driver of the van, a rugged-looking man with sun-kissed skin, is a man used to these harsh surroundings. Sporting an Outback hat and yellow-tinted shades, his eyes remain protected from the sharp glare of the sun's rays as he focuses on the unmapped road before him. Holding the wheel with one hand, he uses his free hand to retrieve a flier from the glove-box.

A couple of weeks ago, a company called Builders League United had contacted him with a job offer. Somehow, they had known about his skill repertoire and tracked him down—not an easy task when the man they're trying to hire is a nomad. But he can't help but wonder what a construction company located in the middle of nowhere wants with a professional hunter. Perhaps they wanted to hire him as a bodyguard?

_It_ _doesn't_ _matter_ , he thinks to himself as he puts the flier away. _Money_ _is_ _money._ _And_ _that_ _means_ _more_ _food!_   The thought of being able to eat all he wants fills him with glee, and he starts singing sweet, nonsensical lyrics to himself while swerving about the rough terrain.

The drive continues on for another half-hour, until a sharp rock in the road blows a hole in one of the tires, forcing the man to park the camper and step out. But as he removes the spare tire from the back of the van, he cannot help but get a sneaking suspicion that he's being watched. He chalks it up to paranoia stemming from prolonged isolation, but try as he might, he cannot shake off the feeling. Every rustle of a tumbleweed, every crunch of a trampled twig, every whisper of the wind summons chills down his spine.

_Suck_ _it_ _up,_ _Mort._ _There's_ _nothin'_ _around_ _for_ _miles._ _You're_ _drivin'_ _yourself_ _mad!_

After finally replacing the broken tire, he buckles himself in and is about to start the car when a loud shatter rings out from the back. Startled, he unlatches his seatbelt and cautiously heads towards the back of the van. Everything appears untouched, save for a broken jar (thankfully empty) that likely fell from the shelf. He turns to look at the bed. Sitting there is his trusty stuffed koala, Li'l Bruce. Only Li'l Bruce doesn't seem so little. In fact, it looks twice its usual size—much too large to fit in the man's pocket.

The hunter unsheathes his kukri and slowly approaches the stuffed bear. With the blade tip, he gently prods the plush toy's forehead. Bruce flinches for a split second, but remains stable. Realizing the risk of provoking the bear, he sheathes the blade and starts ticking its belly until he gets a more obvious reaction.

“Will you quit zat?” shouts the imposter plush bear between bouts of loud laughter. The hunter's eyes widen as the bear's appearance dissolves its disguise, revealing its true form: a slender man in a navy pinstripe suit and a blue balaclava. At the stranger's feet lies an unlaced paper mask emblazoned with a scrawl of Li'l Bruce's face. As his laughter dies down, the mystery man rubs his forehead, where he was poked. “Well, at least I'm not bleeding to death or anyzhing.” He looks up at the hunter, and says with a carefree demeanor, “Circumstances aside, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mortimer Mundy.”

Mortimer, already thrown off by the previous revelation, is now more shocked and irked than ever. “How the hell'd you know 'bout my name?”

The blue-suited stranger hopped off the bed and brushed the dirt and dust off him. “I know all about you, Mr. Mundy. Professional sniper, grew up in rural Australia, lived in the Outback for months at a time... dated some _sheep_...?”

Flustered by the last comment, Mr. Mundy blurts out, “What the hell are ya, some kinda bloody stalker?”

“I assure you, I am more zhan a mere 'stalker'. I am a secret agent. Intelligence is my specialty!”

“You're not so intelligent if your disguise can fall off that easily.”

The so-called “secret agent” crosses his arms and pouts. “Well, zat bear mask was thrown together at zhe last moment. My disguises are superior otherwise!”

“Sure. I'm sure all your little paper masks work stupendously,” Mortimer retorts. “Look, I dunno why you're stalking me...”

“I am NOT a stalker!”

“... but sneakin' into my van is just goin' out of line. In case you can't tell, I can't exactly afford a second mouth t' feed.” He glances at the dirt stains on the stowaway's suit and scuffed-up shoes. “How long were you following me for, anyway?”

The agent looks down at his dirty garments and frowns. “Not nearly as long as you think. I have been trying to look for BLU...”

“Waitaminute, you're going to BLU?”

He nods. “Oui. I was wandering the desert for days, and zhen I saw your van passing by and thought I would hitch a ride.”

“I see...” Trailing off, he returns to the driver's seat and turns on the car. “Just as a warning, this is a one-time favor.”

The straggler's face brightens at this turn of events, and tears start forming from his eyes. “Oh, merci, Mr. Mundy! I must pay you back for this!”

Seeing the expression on his face, Mortimer can't help but smile. “No worries, mate. Jus' call me Mort.”

In the days that followed, Mr. Mundy and his acquaintance—who insists on being called Spy—have spent as much of their daylight traveling, sparing time to eat and sleep as the sun goes down. As their supply of canned goods grows short, Mort resorted to whipping out his trusty sniper rifle and hunting for the little game that wanders the landscape. It became increasingly obvious that Spy did not know how to adapt in this type of environment; his outfit told him that much. But with a little bit of training, he learned how to gather food and water from the plant life, and took advantage of his butterfly knife and stealth to catch smaller game. On occasions, the two would take shifts driving, with one taking over for the day and the other driving at night. The two seem to have bonded a bit throughout the trip, but the hunter cannot help but be wary about his stowaway partner. They may be the best of friends now, but what else could be lying under that mask of his...?


	2. Meet the Team

_Once upon a time, there was a tiny faerie named Anonyme. Anonyme was a very special sort of sprite: she could disguise herself as anybody and anything she wanted. One day, she was accepted by a school tailored towards magical beings like her. Anonyme was excited—finally, she would show the world what she was truly capable of._

_Unfortunately, things didn't go quite as well for the little faerie girl. Her grades were average at best, and the disguises she was so proud of broke easily. As a result, she was ridiculed by the other shape-shifters, and after failing one too many classes, she was kicked out of the school and sent to the human world for further training._

_Lost in a land unknown to her, the terrified sprite wandered the forest, left to fend for herself. Then one fateful day, Anonyme found a tent and unlit campfire in the middle of the forest. Tired and starving, she ate the few berries in the bag left behind and snuggled up inside the sleeping bag. Anonyme slept for a long time, until she was rudely awoken by a giant, prodding finger. The finger belonged to a human male named Archer._

_Anonyme was afraid of the human at first, but over time, she grew to like him more and more. Contrary to his rugged exterior, he was soft-spoken and kind to all living things. He was also intelligent and skilled with a bow and arrow. As Anonyme traveled alongside the man, she learned how much they had in common. Like her, he was also an outcast, rejected by his own kind. The hunter and the sprite became the best of friends, and for the first time in their lives, they both felt like they belonged._

_Alas, this feeling would not last forever. In time, the two would grow apart and pursue their own destinies, find love from other people. The sprite was well aware of this, but she was determined to never let that happen._

As the last tendril of usable sunlight disappears from view, the Spy—with a sigh—snaps shut his journal and tucks it away in his suit. He stands and walks over to the front of the van, where his friend, Mortimer, lies, asleep on the driver's seat. Trying not to disturb the poor fellow, the Spy plucks him from his spot and plops him on the flimsy bed; the man is an amazingly heavy sleeper. He stops to stare longingly at the hunter's rugged features, to brush his fingers against his messy brown hair and overgrown sideburns. A part of him wants to do more, but his conscience fights against it. Still, he resists stepping away from the sleeping man, as if doing so will make his heart stop beating. After much reluctance, he wills himself to break contact with him. As long as he's nearby, the Spy is satisfied.

In time, the dark, starry sky gives way to the sun, and the destination grows ever nearer. Far off in the horizon, the familiar, modern logo of Building Leaders United stands out amongst the drab desert. As the camper proceeds, the sleek, industrial building gradually reveals itself, towering over them in minutes. Spy, still full of energy despite driving all night, parks the van in a nearby lot and wakes up Mort. While exiting the van, they are greeted by a petite woman dressed in purple.

“Hello there,” the woman says with a smile on her face. “Welcome to Building Leaders United. You must be the new recruits. Thank goodness you're finally here! You can call me Miss Pauling.” She holds out a hand to Mortimer.

“You can call me Mr. Mundy,” Mort replies, still recovering from waking up. He weakly shakes her hand, causing her to raise a brow in concern.

“I take it you've had a long trip. Well, not to worry—we have showers, beds, and food over in the barracks, if you need it.” Mort perks up instantly upon the mention of food; she cracks a smile at this reaction. “Now that you're awake, let me give you a tour of the place.”

The BLU fortress is a lot bigger in the inside, certainly more so than it appears from the outside. (Spy makes a joke about a “TARDIS” thingamajig and expectations of “timey-wimey things” happening, which Miss Pauling takes in stride, but which flies over Mort’s head.) But with Miss Pauling’s assistance, getting around the area becomes far less intimidating. The barracks are for lounging and sleeping, the cafeteria’s for eating (and the occasional food fight), and the locker rooms are for dressing and showering before and after work. But as much as Mortimer admires the lady in purple's kindness, he's starting to become anxious about meeting his coworkers.

Whilst touring through the main fortress, the trio passes by a stout man in a construction hat, carrying a box of some sort. Curious, the Spy sneaks away to follow him, and Mortimer, noticing his sudden absence, follows suit. They follow the man to a garage door of some sort, which opens instantly as he steps in front of it. Swiftly, they sneak inside, where they are introduced to a room full of scrap metal, tools, and machinery in various stages of progress. The two express their amazement in hushed tones.

Spy's eyes widen at the sight of this discovery. “Zhis is amazing! BLU's technology is far superior to anyzhing I've ever seen.” He giggles and pokes the nose end of a turret-like device. “Touch!”

“Dammit, Spy! You can't go touchin' everything! What if something goes off, or—”

“Relax, Morty! Zhey're not even turned on. Look!” He lightly taps the top of the turret, which, upon impact, turns on and starts adjusting its nozzle. “Uh-oh.”

“Duck!” Mort pushes Spy out of the way, but the turret head swivels to face them, anyway. After a long moment of staring down at the two, it makes an affirming beep and switches back to its default position, sensing no harm. The two of them get up and sigh in relief. “Well, at least that's over.”

“I see you've met my sentry,” says a voice from behind. Mort and Spy turn around, and find themselves face-to-face with the man in the hardhat. “Y’all oughta be lucky he only targets RED members, or you wouldn’t even be standing here, talkin’ to me.” He stares them up and down, as if inspecting their outfits. “I take it you’re the new recruits?”

Mort hesitates a bit before replying. “Yeah, we are. We got lost and wound up here—”

“You have a really nice lab!”

“Er, yeah. Thanks. Anywho, we’d better get going. Wouldn’t wanna interrupt anything important you’re doing.” Mort starts pushing his partner away, who’s still babbling about how UH-MAZING the place is or whatever, when the hardhat man starts chuckling.

“Aw, I wasn’t up to anything important. While you’re still in the building, why don’t I show you guys around?”

Spy’s eyes grow wide and glisten with joy. “Would I ever!” While not nearly as enthusiastic as the agent, Mortimer doesn’t see any point in refusing; a casual smile and shrug is enough of a reaction of acceptance.

“Great! Just follow me; exit’s right this way.” The hardhat man starts walking towards the other end of the room, followed by the newbies. “By the way, the name’s Miller Macintosh. I’m the Engineer for BLU. But you can call me ‘Engie’.”

Miller’s soft-spoken Southern drawl is soothing to Mort’s ears, like silk on smooth skin. He can’t quite describe this feeling, but he feels more relaxed in his presence. “Mortimer Mundy. Professional sniper. Er, sorta.”

“You can call me Agent Double-O—”

“Jus’ call ‘im Spy.”

The Engineer belts out a hearty chuckle. “Well, aren’t you two quite the pair! I think you’re gonna fit in just fine here.”

Miller starts showing them around the building—“Teufort”, he calls it—pointing out the locations of the supply lockers and battlements. Mort is particularly amazed by the view of the river below, and his interest is piqued by the rustic building standing across from it. (“Pay no mind to it,” the Engineer says, his normally gentle voice inexplicably filled with bitterness.) Spy, however, seems more interested in splashing around in the water and exploring the sewers. (Luckily, Mort manages to drag him out before he could go in too deep.)

As they explore the interior, they encounter a number of odd fellows sporting the company colors. The first one is a man—at least, Mort thinks they might be a man—in an asbestos suit, his face covered by a gas mask. The expressionless mask, inches away from the Spy's nose, can be rather unsettling. But that fear is quickly washed away when Miller starts speaking to him.

“Aiden, don't stand too close to 'im; you'll frighten the poor fella.” Hearing his name snapped the masked man out of his trance. Turning to the agent, Miller says, “Sorry 'bout that. He gets excited when new mercs arrive. Mort, Spy, this is Aiden, our Pyro.”

The Pyro waves and starts talking and gesticulating. Only, his dialogue is completely muffled by the gas mask, making the gestures appear melodramatic in comparison to what he's likely saying. But despite the strange man's behavior, the Engineer laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Say, why don't you go check up on Miss Pauling? She's pro'lly worried sick about these two.” Aiden nods and runs off, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Sorry if he caught you off-guard,” Miller says as he leads the rookies towards the barracks, an area barely touched upon by Miss Pauling. Like the rest of BLU, it was surprisingly large for what purpose it serves, though not quite as much so. The building, Miller explains, provides mercenaries with most of the basic amenities, to keep them satisfied. The aroma of freshly cooked foods entice Mortimer as they pass by the cafeteria—located on the ground floor. Moving on to the showers, the lockers and stall walls are built of finely forged steel, matching the neutral, modern tone of the rest of the facility. Further down is the lounge room, where meetings and group gatherings are held.

Heading up to the second floor, they can hear all sorts of sounds, as sleepy mercenaries awaken from their slumber. But all the yawns and creaks pale in comparison to the racket resounding from the end of the hallway. The last door to the left breaks wide open, and a lanky young man storms out of the room.

“That is IT! I've had it up to my neck with you and your snoring and your everything! First chance I get, I'm moving out!” The man has a strong Boston accent that's further accentuated the angrier he gets.

The voice that follows is a frightening, deep snarl, more bear than man. “No. I am done with YOU, leetle man!” Suddenly, a giant hand is thrust out the door, its index finger pointing straight at the lad. “Go run back to Medic!” (Mortimer isn't able to identify the unusual accent, but Spy instantly recognizes it as Russian.)

The younger man exchanges snips with the bear-man before finally flipping the bird and walking away. He bumps into Mortimer along the way, and shoves him aside while muttering a surprisingly polite “excuse me”. The Sniper opens his mouth to reply, but Miller places a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. “Don't bother; that boy won't listen to reason.”

Miller turns his attention to the door nearest to him and opens it. Inside is a bedroom with simple furniture, including a desk and chair, a three-shelf drawer, and a bunk bed tucked off near a corner. “The arrangement might be different dependin' on the room, but for the most part, this is pretty much it. These parts of the barracks work like hotel rooms, but on the house.” Still standing in the doorway, he points a thumb at the door behind him. “That's where I sleep. You're welcome to take this room, since it hasn't been used in a while.”

This particular detail attracted Spy's attention. “Why not? It looks perfectly normal to me.”

Miller belts out a laugh and answers, “Aw, nothin', really. Jus' some silly rumors 'bout a ghost haunting the room.” A chill runs down Spy's spine at the mention of ghosts. “What, you're afraid of that stuff? You Spies really are a cowardly bunch.” The Engineer continues to guffaw at the Spy's expense while Mortimer remains completely oblivious, happily inspecting the furniture.

Later, back downstairs, they decide to drop by and take a good look at the fitness training room, located just past the locker room entrance. Muffled sounds of a rousing argument and some crashing metal can be heard in the distance, growing in volume as they venture near the door. “Sounds like quite a commotion,” Miller notes with a smile on his face. As he twists the lever, Mortimer and Spy take a step back from the door, fearing whatever—or whomever—lies behind it.

The room is quite spacious, possibly due to the lack of any actual equipment; a punching bag, some weights, and gym mats lining the floor. Unfortunately, not much time could be spent examining it, as a clattering sound interrupts them. On the opposite end of the room, a full-blown scuffle is progressing.

“Quit it, Jane! Can't you see he's already been through enough?”

A tall and brawny-looking black man is seen holding back a short man, struggling to break free. Meanwhile, the “leetle man” from earlier has crashed into a rack of dumbbells—the cause of the sound—most likely thrown in there by an even littler man. Getting a good look at the smaller man's face is almost impossible, as half of it is concealed by a beaten old soldier's helmet, but his square jaw and stout body reveals the level of strength he has over the scrawny youth. The taller of the two tries to recover, but is quickly kicked down by the shorter one's boot. Once the boy's been bruised and beaten into a state of unconsciousness, the victor of the fight—still under the captivity of the dark-skinned man—is dragged away, swearing and cursing on the way out.

Mortimer's heart sinks. _I've just watched a boy get the shit beaten out of 'im, and I didn't do anything to stop it._ He runs over to where the boy lies and checks his vitals. Feeling signs of a pulse, he sighs in relief. Good. He's still breathing. Turning his attention to Miller, who's following oh-too-casually after a trembling Spy, Mort shouts, “Is there a doctor around here? Out with it.”

Unfazed, Miller smirks and says, “Lemme show you the way.”


	3. MEDIC!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Header image by Kara (heavensong on Tumblr). Commissioned and uploaded with her permission.

 With Mortimer and Spy taking the young male in tow, Miller leads them down a hallway, until they notice several chairs lined up against the wall next to a windowed door. This door is noticeably taller and wider than the others found around the base, and it's adorned with various warning signs in English and German, including one which reads “No Smoking” (catching a glance of this one, Spy slips a cigarette back into his pocket). Miller knocks on the door with his gloved hand (Mort notices that the Engineer wears only one glove. The question is, why?) and calls out, “Hey, Doc! Got a special delivery for you.”

“Vhat is it now?” answers a voice, dripping with exasperation. As the mysterious “Doc” opens the door, Mort and Spy's eyes grow wide as saucers. A rotund figure standing almost a full head taller than the Sniper, the man is HUGE. Not to mention awfully pissed. “I've got no time for your...” His anger is drained away, replaced by shock as he finally notices the body of the boy. “Vell? Vhat're you vaiting for? Get him on zhe table, pronto!”

Right away, Mortimer and Spy lay the boy on the examination table, where the doctor proceeds to inspect the extent of the damage. Neither of them could understand what he's muttering, but his relieved sigh quickly soothes the tension in the room. “He's got a few crushed ribs and a lot of bruising, but he should be just fine ozhervise.”

The boy's eyes flicker open and he lifts his head to skim the environment. “Wha...?” As soon as he catches a glimpse of the doctor's face, his lips emit a weak chuckle. “Hey, Doc. What're you doing here?” The young man coughs, a small drop of blood trickling down his mouth.

The doctor, his expression eerily stoic, grabs hold of the young man's forehead and slams it against the table; he seems unaware of or indifferent to this violent action. “I digress; he is in much vorse condition zhan I expected. But not to vorry: he vill be better in a snap!” Noticing the concerned reactions of the Sniper and the Spy, he throws in, “He'll be on his feet in zhe morning.”

“Are you sure?” Mortimer says, his brow furrowed with worry. After this incident, he hopes he'll never have to make a trip to the operation room ever.

The doctor's expression lightens up, and he waves off Mort's comment. “Sure I'm sure! Vincent iz a regular patient of mine. If he ever dies, I vould never forgive myself!” Mort still has his doubts, but the larger man's answer relieves him a bit.

The Sniper opens his mouth to speak, but out of nowhere, Spy butts in. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Hartmann!”

The doctor is taken aback at first, but he appears slightly amused by this turn of events. “It's my pleasure, Herr Spy.” He turns his attention to Mortimer. “From zhe looks of it, I take it you are zhe new Sniper?” Mortimer nods. “Vhen I heard zhat ve vould be receiving new recruits, I couldn't help but be a little... apprehensive.” Glancing at Vincent's unconscious body, he continues. “But after you've saved Vincent, I have to admit, I could not be more relieved. Danke schön, mein Kameraden.”

Doctor Hartmann's gentle smile and compliment warms Mortimer's heart, and his cheeks flush a bright pink as he stammers, attempting to piece together a proper reply. “I-er, thank you... Uh, I mean, it's nothin', really! I couldn't just stand around and do nothin' while somebody's hurt. I—”

His speech is interrupted by Miller, who, until now, has remained silent. “I guess I'd better be off now. Take care of 'em, Doc.”

The larger man glares at the smaller man in the hardhat. “Vill do, Herr Macintosh.” With that, the Engineer takes his leave, and the doctor regains his former composure. “Vell, I don't believe I've gotten your names yet. As Herr Spy had already mentioned, I am Doktor Hartmann. I am zhe Medic for zhe team here at Teufort. Speaking of vhich, I cannot keep calling you 'Herr Spy' forever. For zhe safety of our team, it vould be best if you let me know here and now.”

Spy pouts. “Zhat's confidential, fattie!”

“If zhat's how you vant to play it...”

In the blink of an eye, the Spy is knocked out, covered in syringes. The Medic blows on the nozzle of his unusual weapon of choice—a gun that shoots out syringe needles in a projectile arc—and puts it away. “Vell, how about you, Herr Sniper? Got anyzhing to add?”

The Sniper isn't sure how to react; he'll have to be cautious when answering. “Name's Mortimer. Mortimer Mundy. J-just call me Mort. None of that 'hair' stuff.”

“Oh. Vell, all right zhen. 'Mort'. Nahh. I like 'Morty' better. Fits your personality better.” He gives a playful smile, which Mort—sorry, Morty—reciprocates. Despite the Medic's hair-trigger temper, there's an air about him that comforts the scruffy Sniper.

_I think we're gonna be the best of buds...!_

That thought is interrupted by the emergence of another figure. Well, two, actually—Mort didn't see the other one being carried into the room. As it turns out, they're the two men in the fitness room earlier. And from the looks of it, they still haven't completely gotten over their squabble yet.

“Sorry, Harty. Jane's been awfully irritable lately,” the dark-skinned man says, his tone genuinely apologetic. “Ah can't figure out what's wrong with 'im.” Meanwhile, the one he refers to as “Jane” appears to have simmered down to simply miffed. “I gotta go. Take care of Janey for me!”

Hartmann smiles as he takes the shorter man in his arms, treating him like a baby. “Vill do, Duncan. Auf Wiedersehen, my friend!” The moment the black man—Duncan—is right out the door, the good doctor's countenance instantly transforms into a devious one. “Now, zhen, Balg, explain yourself. Vhat satisfaction did you feel vhen you beat up my dear Kaninchen?”

Unlike Mort when he spoke to Hartmann earlier, the man named “Jane” is showing an excess of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Not to mention he's awfully loud, with the voice and tone of a drill sergeant. “I had to teach the brat a lesson about messing with the big boys. If he can't back up his words with action, he doesn't deserve to be on the battlefield!”

“Vincent is just as much of an asset on zhe battlefield as everybody else.”

“He's a spineless little whelp who's holding the team back.”

“As if beating the Scheiße out of him vill make him more useful. Yes, let's impair his mobility, vhile ve're at it!”

 “Kick him off the team. It's better off that way.”

“How about I kick you off instead, you little—?”

“HEY!”

The two of them quit bickering and turn their attention to Mortimer, whose face is contorted from frustration. “I don't know what's goin' on here, but all this yabberin' ain't gonna fix nothin'!” He looks at Jane. “Mr. Jane, or whoever you are, I saw what went on in the gym. I dunno what happened, or who started it, but I don't care about that. When Vince wakes up, the two of you are going to talk it out—no fightin' or bickerin', just a nice, simple chat 'til you resolve things.” Then to Hartmann: “Hart, you're a doctor. If you really cared about Vincent, you'd know better than to take yer anger out on Jane, even if he did start it. I'm pretty sure that goes against some kinda doctor code or somethin'.”

The doctor and the sergeant-wannabe say nothing, their glances alternating between each other and Mort. Then, after a long moment, the silence is finally broken by a loud burst of laughter.

 “Gut one, Morty!” Hartmann says as one of his large hands ruffles the Sniper's hat, making his shaggy brown hair even more out of sorts. “Vell, I only have one operating table, so I'll spare you zhe pain zhis time, Janey. But I expect you and Vincent to talk it out after he vakes up. I'll make sure of it.”

“Yeah, all right, all right. Just keep that kid reined in or something. Can't have him freaking out in the middle of battle.”

“Of course. Off you go, little one!” Jane, storming out, grumbles a bit at the nickname as Hartmann cheerfully waves him goodbye. The doctor then turns back to Mort. “Zhat vas unusual. Under most circumstances, I'd send him to zhe emergency room, but it seems like ve've come to a more peaceful resolution.”

“Do you guys always fight?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Fighting is all anyone does around here. 'Specially me.”

“But it doesn't always have to be that way.”

Hartmann's face turns grim. “Look, kid. You may have kept me from loading Jane's arse vith syringes, but I highly doubt you'd be able to pull zhat off again. There's not a soul here who doesn't vant me dead. None except Kaninchen.”

“Now, I know that's not true. You and that Duncan bloke seem like good friends t' me!”

“Only 'cause he treats me like Jane's babysitter.”

“But look at it this way: if he really hates you, or doesn't give a hoot about you, would he even trust you with Jane in the first place? An' look at us now! We're talkin' like a couple of chums, wouldn't you say?”

A pause, then: “I suppose.”

“So quit bein' so glum an' put on a smile! Fits yer personality better.” He wraps his hands around one of Hartmann's (or tries to, anyway) and grins.

The giant of a doctor is absolutely gobsmacked. Such an open gesture of kindness was rare for him: the Australian man's grin reminded him of a certain other young man who treated him the same way, and the way he turned one of his own compliments towards him was less-than-expected. But it's as an old companion of his said: “kindness is contagious”. “Ja. I suppose ve are 'friends'.”

The sweet moment going on between the two of them is interrupted by a sickly groaning sound coming from the syringe-laden corpse lying on the floor. “Speaking of friends, I zhink you should do somezhing about zhat Spy lackey of yours. He's going to be an obstruction, I just know it.” As Mort carries the groggy Spy upstairs to the barracks, the good doctor says to himself, “A Sniper und a Spy... Zhis isn't going to end vell.”


	4. Under the Blue Mask

After dragging Spy's corpse up to the dorm, Mortimer's stomach starts to grumble. “Ugh... In all that excitement, I forgot that I hadn't eaten since this mornin'. Work can wait—I need food.” Hearing the Spy's moaning, he quietly adds, “I'll get somethin' fer you, too.”

Pushing open one of the double-doors leading to the cafeteria, Mort is immediately greeted by an array of warm, delicious fragrances. The sweet smell of apple pie, the smoky scent of barbecue pork ribs, and the sharp odor of the strange mystery meat tickle his nose and—before he's even fully aware of it—lead him towards the line of mercenaries (whom might as well be faceless to him, seeing how unspectacular they look from the perspective of a starving man). Without even taking his friend's delicate stomach into consideration, he orders one of everything from the menu and is about to leave the line when...

“Hey, it's the fella from the gym and the office!” The worker serving Mortimer and several other men the mystery meat grins and stares at him with one eye. His  _only_ eye.

Finally noticing the eye-patch on him, Mort becomes more than a little bit nervous. “D-Duncan, right? I saw you at the office, too.”

The one-eyed man raises a brow, then laughs. “Oh! You mean Hart's place, right? Didn't notice you at the time. Got a lot on my plate with Janey an' work.”

“I can tell. Say, is Mr. Jane always like tha—”

“Hey, idiot! Move outta the way!” A younger merc from further down the line shouts at Mort, provoking him into stepping out of the way of the others.  _You_ _could've_ _at_ _least_ _said_ _“_ _please_ _”_ , Mort thinks to himself, vexed by the youth's rudeness.

Thankfully, the bushman's mood doesn't linger for very long; the delicious taste of the mystery meat eradicates any feelings of anger he once felt. His hunger taking over, he quickly disposes of the tray full of food, and has considered returning for seconds when a familiar face sits down in front of him.

“I figured you'd be here.” The Engineer tips his hardhat and smiles. “Yer face when I showed you the place was like a puppy seein' his owner after a long day apart.” Mort tilts his head, puzzled by the metaphor being used.  _Did_ _I_ _really_ _look_ _like_ _a_ _puppy_ _to_ _him?_

He changes the subject. “Hey, did you know that Duncan works here? I never realized the blokes around here work other jobs, too.”

“Duncan shifts between ten jobs, both here and in the town. (Least, that's what I last heard.) Surprising to hear he even gets breaks at all.”

“How can he work ten jobs and take care of that brat—er, Mr. Jane—and still catch a break?”

Miller shrugs. “Beats me. I don't think he does 'em all at once, though. I'm pretty sure most of 'em are part-time or seasonal positions.”

“I'm pretty sure babysitting Janey is his full-time job,” Mort retorts.

Their conversation is suddenly interrupted by a loud, clattering sound. The next table over, a Soldier—the resident Jane Doe—slams their tray on the table, then glares at Mort and Miller before taking his seat. Though the small man's eyes cannot be seen, the aura that exudes from him is enough to send chills down the bushman's spine.

A long, awkward silence looms over their table before the bushman finally remembers something—or rather, somebody. “I gotta go. Bye.” He stands to take his tray and rushes back to the line.

Armed with a tray full of the best the cafeteria has to offer, Mortimer returns to the dorm room. Spy is no longer unconscious, but hunger and exhaustion prevents him from leaving his spot on the bottom bunk. The smell of the food is both enticing and nauseating. “Thank you,” he says weakly as he accepts a small bowl of soup from the Sniper. Unfortunately, due to his weak stomach, he is unable to enjoy it for long; he barely empties half of it before his gag reflex starts kicking in.

Mortimer frowns and takes the soup away. “Those syringes must've affected you more than I thought.”

Spy shakes his head. “No, it's not zhe syringes. I've always been like this...” His voice trails off, as if he's forgotten what to say next. A moment of silence later, he lies on his side and wraps the blanket around him. “Go on without me. I'll only slow you down.”

For a long while, Mortimer is uncertain how to react to this statement. In the end, he finally says, “Work can wait. Your well-being's more important.”

The secret agent peers at him from under the covers and mutters, “Missing work on zhe first day... you really are looking to get fired, aren't you?”

Had he not been distracted by the food on his lap, Mort would have heard that, clear as day. “Besides, Doctor Hartmann seems awfully busy with that kid, an' after what he did to you, it's pro'lly best he doesn't get involved anymore.”

Spy chuckles weakly. “Definitely for zhe best.”

For a moment, neither of them say a word, as the Sniper preoccupies himself with the task of cleaning his plate. After taking the last bite of mystery meat, he speaks up. “Say, you know all kinds of things about me, an' you pro'lly know more about our teammates than you let on. Yet I know almost nothin' about you. I mean, I know you don't eat much, and you like to dress all fancy, and you're always causin' trouble wherever you go... but I don't know about  _you_ . Know what I mean?”

“I can't reveal too much. Security reasons and all.”

“I'm not askin' for much. Just a name'll do. I'll even keep it a secret, if I have to.”

A pause, then, with a limp, barely-existent shrug, he answers, “Come closer, and I'll tell you.” Puzzled, Mortimer sets the tray aside and leans closer to him. “A little bit more...” Doing as his friend commands, he's practically lying on the bed, his ear inches away from him. “That's good enough. My name... My name is...”

After some hesitation, the Spy whispers in a voice so soft, it is like a gentle breeze in the airless room. But Mort's sharp ears have picked it up, and that name will forever remain, buried in his subconscious.

_Alan_ _Ian_ _Astor._

The name sounds simple enough that it could easily be forgotten, but there is an ethereal quality about it that makes it hard to forget. Say it too fast, and your tongue gets tied. But say it too slowly, and it risks sounding buffoonish. But at the right pace, it sounds...

“Lovely,” says the Sniper, letting slip the first word that came to mind. “It's got a nice ring to it!”

Spy—er, Alan—averts his gaze, too bashful to make direct eye contact. “Merci. Your name's not too bad, either.”

“Aw, it's nothing special. Got it from my great-grandpappy. Your name's a real charmer, definitely fancy like a Frenchman.”

Alan stifles a laugh. “And you're a real hick! I mean seriously, who says 'grandpappy' anymore?”

Mortimer frowns, slightly offended. He never found anything unusual about saying things a certain way. But now, lying here next to this city boy, he can't help but feel insecure about his quaint nature. He stands up and retorts, his tone deadpan, “Sounds like you're feelin' better already.”

“No, I'm not! Not yet, anyway.” Alan covers himself from head to toe with the blanket, and Mort watches individual articles of clothing slip from under the blanket onto the floor. First his tie. Then his socks, and his pants, and his suit and blouse. After slipping his gloves off and letting them fall, he takes off his balaclava and hands it to Mortimer, who still can't see the Spy's face. “Since you are here, would you mind taking those to the laundry and bringing me a new set of clothes? It has been a while since I have worn something clean. Can you, please?”

Fiddling with the mask in his hands, Mortimer feels discomforted, for some reason. _No,_ _it's_ _not_ _just_ _because_ _he's_ _makin'_ _me_ _into_ _his_ _li'l_ _slave._ _It's_ _somethin'_ _else._ _Somethin'_ _about_ _his_ _voice..._ “Alright. But what if you need t' use the bathroom or somethin'?”

“Worry not about me. I am perfectly capable of finding solutions. Now... go.” Alan's slender hand gesture suggests the bushman go away, which he does immediately.

Still, he cannot help but have mixed feelings about the Spy's behavior during that moment. Al has always acted a little snobbish from time to time, but usually, it's accompanied by a warmth, due to his cheerful nature. That moment, however, he showed no warmth at all. There was a coldness in his heart, as if something inside of him had changed his very essence.  _Well,_ _he_ _said_ _he_ _can_ _handle_ _himself,_ _so_ _I_ _might_ _as_ _well_ _let_ _him._ _I_ _got_ _more_ _important_ _work_ _to_ _do,_ _anyway._

“Oh, there you are!” Down at the foot of the stairway stands Miss Pauling and a familiar-looking figure sporting a gas mask. The lady in purple rambles on, concerned and slightly exasperated, “I was looking for you all over the place. Thank goodness Aiden found you, or else I'd be running in circles, and that would NOT be a good thing...” Taking a deep breath, she turns her diverted attention back to Mort. “You didn't get too lost, did you?”

Heaving the load of clothes the Spy handed to him, Mortimer shakes his head. “Not at all! Thanks to you and Miller, Spy an' I already feel right at home.”

Miss Pauling sighs in relief at the comment. “Well, now that that's settled, I might as well leave you to your business. But be warned: if a situation arises, I'm likely to return at any moment, so behave yourself. Understand, Mr. Mundy?”

Mort swallows a lump in his throat. “Y-yes, ma'am! But before I leave, there's just one question I have.” He holds up the dirty laundry in front of the two. “Does anyone know where I can find a place to dump these?”

With Aiden's assistance, Mortimer manages to find a laundry room and gets the Spy's clothes set to wash while they both lug the suitcases up to the dorm room... sort of. Aiden, helpful as he was when carrying them up the stairs, immediately drops the luggage in front of the door, reluctant to open it. Getting frustrated with arguing with the Pyro, Mort thanks him for helping anyway, and hauls it inside.

Inside the bedroom, the secret agent—Alan Ian Astor—lies, fast asleep. With the blanket no longer covering his entire self, the Sniper is able to get a good look at his face. His general facial structure is boyish and youthful, though his long lashes and soft lips make him appear feminine as well. The most distinctive aspect, however, is the spread of pale freckles across his cheekbones and the crooked bridge of his nose. Alan's face is arguably a bit on the plain side, but it has an appeal that is uniquely his. Ethereal and adorable, Mortimer is immediately reminded of a faerie, and explains that as justification for this strange and sudden attraction to him.

He gently sets the luggage down and walks over to the bed where the sleeping beauty lies. From this perspective, he can see how Alan's hair is colored like a dandelion, as well as the two rebellious strands that stand up like bean sprouts. The oddest part of his hair, however, are the twin rat tails sprouting from the nape of his neck; they must reach partway down his back, at least. Mort takes back his previous thought and concludes that Alan _is_ a faerie. Unusual haircut aside, with his shape-shifting powers and complexion, the Spy resembles a magical creature more than any human being.

Realizing he's getting distracted from the task at hand, Mortimer opens up the suitcases and starts organizing the contents and putting them into the empty drawers. While the bushman is busy sorting through garments, the Spy—a light sleeper in disguise—smiles and watches Mortimer through slitted eyes.


	5. The Art of War

A few minutes to noon, Mortimer finishes fulfilling Alan's favor and heads to the showers to wash up. Normally, he prefers to bathe alone, outside the realm of judgment from peering eyes, but for now, he'll have to make do with the public stalls. Thankfully for him, only one other person seems to be taking a shower this late in the day: Miller. The Engineer, stark naked, is pudgy, but still looks strong—just the way Mort likes them. But the Sniper is unable to enjoy the view for long, as Miller steps into the shower and pulls the curtain.

Curious about the inventor's showering habits, Mortimer keeps his senses sharp while cleaning himself. Miller's soft, lyrical voice tempts him into slumber, but every once in a while, it would be interrupted by an odd sound, as if a machine has gone haywire. _Did something in his stall break?_ No, these things don't seem all that special—certainly not in a way that could have created such noise. He takes another peek at the stall across from him. Hanging on a bar between the two stalls are Miller's backup clothes and boots.

_Hold on a minute. Where'd his glove go?_ Just as the thought came to mind, the stall across from him has gone silent. A gloved hand grabs hold of the curtain, and Mortimer rushes to close his own before he witnesses Miller in all his full-frontal glory. He listens closely to the shuffling sounds of the tubby man stepping out of the shower and donning his clothing. As the thump-thump-thump of the man's working boots gradually fade into nothingness, Mort begins to wonder about what secrets he might be hiding.

He's fifteen minutes late and holding a paper cup half-full of mocha latte, but he's finally arrived and ready to fight. According to one of the other men, the team is down one, and could use a Sniper to help balance out the field... or something like that. Mort can hear explosions and gunfire over in the distance. Far from ready for close combat, he immediately searches for a spot from which he can observe safely. He eventually finds a path leading to the lovely view that Miller showed him and Spy earlier that day, and starts prepping his sniper rifle.

The chaos of the battlefield is overwhelming, but watching it all through the narrow vision of the sniper scope makes it just a touch more comforting. _Just shoot the red guys, and it'll all be over in no time._ He repeats this mantra in his mind as he aims and fires at his target. He didn't come into this job with high expectations of himself—as long as he shoots somebody, he's good to go—but the more he notices his performance, the more his confidence begins to wane. Whenever he asked for a headshot, the less likely he got one. Likewise, shots straight through the head came when he least expected it. _If only those happened more consistently._

As the last few minutes tick away, something unexpected happens. Just when Mort thinks it was safe to pull the trigger, a sharp pain strikes into his spine and chest. He can feel his heartbeats slowing down as the blood that pulsed through his veins begin to bleed out from his back. As he collapses to the ground, the last thing he sees before he blacks out is a devious grin, belonging to a red-suited Spy.

_Blackness. Nothingness. Is that all there is when you die? No, it can't be...! I see... I see a light. It's tiny, but it's there. Perhaps if I reach towards it... I can be saved._

Mort's eyelids flicker, the bright light blinding him as he awakens. As his eyes adjust to the lighting, he can see a large figure looming over him.

“Guten Morgen, Morty,” the figure says cheerfully as a giant hand helps him up. “You voke up just in time.”

Mortimer's brows contorted in confusion. “In time for what?”

“You vere out for quite a vhile, ja? Zhe next round is about to start!”

Suddenly having flashbacks of the last few moments before he woke up, he shook his head. “No! I ain't goin' out there, no way in hell!”

Hartmann seems unaware—or indifferent—to the bushman's protests. “I take it you're not used to zhe Respawn System yet. Don't vorry: everyone gets scared zhe first time zhey die.”

_The_ first  _time_ _they_ _die?_ “You mean that's gonna happen again? As in, multiple times? I don't think I can handle this. I wanna go home!”

“No vay, José. Zhe sooner you get used to it, zhe better. Vhy, vhen Kaninchen first came here, I made him take every available shift. He died ein hundert sieben und vierzig times zhat veek, but I zhink he's learned since zhen.”

“Ein hundert...? You mean he's died over a hundred times?”

“One hundred und forty-seven times, to be exact. To be frank, I think he did quite vell for his first time.” The Medic sounded a little too jolly when he said that.

“But that's impossible! I can understand coming back from the dead one time, but one hundred and forty-seven times...?” _Did_ _I_ _land_ _in_ _purgatory_ _or_ _something?_ _'Cause_ _it_ _sounds_ _an_ _awful_ _lot_ _more_ _like_ _Hell._

“Zhat is zhe result of zhe Respawn System. Nobody really knows how it vorks, but zhe instant your personal information is entered into zhe database, you are eligible to be revived und transported back to zhe base vhen you die in battle. Zhe only catch is zhat it only vorks within a certain range, und zhe time it takes for zhe process to take place varies dependin on zhe situation. On average, zhough, it takes about twenty to thirty seconds.”

Mortimer is awestruck by this new information. To think, he had only been dead for less than a minute before being transported here. Though he's terrified of the pain he'll feel in the long run, he's also relieved to know that he is not in any real danger—not yet, anyway. “Knowin' this definitely takes a huge burden offa my shoulders. Thanks, Doc.”

“Bitte sehr. I should know about zhis—I died over ein tausend times!”

“You really haven't learned, have you?”

“Eh, in my line of vork, it's pretty much inevitable,” he replies with a bitterness in his tone. “So tell me, vhat happened out zhere?”

“You mean, how I died?” Even after hearing and saying it so many times, he still cannot get over how casually they speak of death. “Well, I was up on the roost, tryin' to aim at a Soldier or two, but just as I was about to pull the trigger, I felt this sharp pain on my back. Last thing I saw was this guy in a red suit.”

“Ah, der Spion. Zhey alvays go after Snipers like you. Masters of stealth, zhey are.” The doctor is smiling, but the bushman can hear the bitterness welling up again. “I don't know vhere your smart-mouthed little friend is, but zhere vill come a time vhen he vill have to do zhe same to zhe enemy.”

Realizing who Hartmann is talking about, Mortimer's heart drops. “You mean... Spy's gonna have to... kill somebody?”

He adjusts his glasses and says, “Ja. Have you not been doing zhe same before now?” Mort says nothing, unable to form a proper answer. A mischievous smirk on his face, Hartmann quips, “You're an odd one, Morty. But I like odd.” He pats him on the back (a little too hard, though) and shoves him in the direction of the door. “Now, off you go!”

Mort rubs his aching back, but heads for the door, anyway. But before he can leave, there's one question that keeps nagging away at Mort's brain. “Hey, Doc. What does 'Kaninchen' mean, anyway?”

The doctor, taken aback by the sudden inquisition, hesitates before answering. “It means 'rabbit' in my native tongue. Vhy'd you ask?”

“Er, no reason. Just curious.” And off he goes.

Muttering “vierdo” under his breath, Hartmann returns to the task at hand: tending to his precious “rabbit”.


	6. Morning Rescue

With great reluctance, Mortimer worked round after round, filling in whenever the team was short a sharpshooter. He got backstabbed, shot in the head, and blown up more times than he could count (if he even bothered to count, that is). But he also got in several body shots and even some headshots—not a terrible job for the first day, he believed.

But that was the past. Now, in the present, he's lying down on the worn-down mattress of the fold-out bed in his camper van. He could've slept in the top bunk if he wanted to, but something came up.

_Earlier_ _that_   _evening,_ _after_   _finishing_   _his_   _last_ _shift_ _for_ _the_ _day,_ _Mortimer_ _returned_ _to_ _his_ _and_ _Alan's_ _dorm_ _room,_ _only_ _to_ _find_ _himself_ _face-to-face_ _with_ _a_ _blond,_ _shaggy-haired_   _youth._ _Shocked_ _as_ _Mort_ _was_ _to_ _see_ _him,_ _the_ _boy_ _looked_ _just_   _as_ _nervous. "_ _Oh._ _Uh,_ _hey._ _I_ _hope_ _you_ _don't_ _mind_ _if_ _—”_

“ _Vincent?_ _What're_ _you_ _doin'_ _here?_ _Shouldn't_ _you_ _be_ _in_ _the_ _emergency_ _room?_ _”_

_Taken_ _aback_ _by_ _the_ _fact_ _that_ _this_ _stranger_ _somehow_ _learned_ _his_ _name,_ _the_ _youth_ _answered,_ _“_ _I_ _got_ _better,_ _so_ _Hart_ _let_ _me_ _out._ _”_ After one day?  _“_ _Anyway,_ _after_ _my_ _little_ _squabble_ _with_ _Pasha_ _this_ _morning,_ _I'd_ _rather_ _spend_ _the_ _night_ _elsewhere._ _Then_ _I_ _bumped_ _into_ _this_ _guy!_ _”_ _He_ _pointed_ _at_ _Alan,_ _who_ _was_ _sitting_ _upright_ _and_ _looking_ _as_ _jovial_ _as_ _ever._ _“_ _He_ _said_ _I_ _could_ _sleep_ _over_ _here._ _Erm,_ _I_ _hope_ _you_ _don't_ _mind,_ _sir._ _”_

_Recalling_ _the_ _argument_ _Vincent_ _had_ _with_ _the_ _big, bear-like_ _man_ _that_ _morning,_ _Mortimer_ _couldn't_ _blame_ _him_ _for_ _wanting_ _to_ _stay_ _away_ _for_ _a_ _bit._ _“_ _No,_ _not_ _at_ _all!_ _I_ _can_ _always_ _sleep_ _in_ _the_ _camper_ _for_ _the_ _night._ _”_

_Alan_ _added, "_ _You_ _can_ _have_ _the_ _bottom_ _bunk;_ _I_ _like_ _top_ _bunks_ _better._ _” T_ _he_ _Spy_ _moved_ _out_ _of_ _the_ _way_ _and_ _scurried_ _up_ _the_ _ladder_ _to_ _the_ _top_ _bed._ _Vince_ _was_ _awestruck_ _as_ _he_ _motioned_ _over_ _to_ _the_ _bed;_ _clearly,_ _he_ _wasn't_ _used_ _to_ _being_ _on_ _the_ _bottom._ _He_ _spent_ _an_ _unusually_ _long_ _amount_ _of_ _time_ _fluffing_ _up_ _the_ _pillows_ _and_ _smoothing_ _out_ _the_ _blanket_ _before_ _cautiously_ _settling_ _down._ That blow to the head must've affected him more than I thought.

Mortimer is still puzzled by the youth's awkward behavior. When he asked about it, Al described him simply as “a little different from the rest of us”. With that in mind, he wonders how well Vincent does on the field. Jane called him a “spineless little whelp”, but Hartmann insists he's as important as anybody else on the team. _What_ _is_ _it_ _about_ _him_ _that_ _makes_ _him_ _so_ _special?_ The question is beginning to aggravate him. Not solely because of the mystery behind it, but the envy he feels when thinking about the way Hartmann treats him. The reasoning behind his jealousy is unknown even to him, but he knows such feelings are petty, especially when aimed towards a person he hardly knows. All Mort knows is that he should be asleep by now.

Mort could not sleep a wink last night. Slumped over and dragging his feet along the floor as he heads towards the barracks, he looks more like a zombie than a living man. But just as he passes by the lounge doors, the steamy, bitter scent of freshly-brewed coffee beckons him. Sure enough, on one of the counters in the lounge area is a coffee machine, with half of a pot of that sweet black elixir still there. The newly-awakened Sniper rushes over to pour himself a cup.

“Morning, sir,” a voice greets him from behind, almost causing him to drop his coffee. He whips himself around, and is relieved to see it's only Vincent. “I brewed too much this morning, so I'm glad somebody else is awake to enjoy it.”

Mort chuckles weakly. “Thanks. You're a real lifesaver, ya know that?” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “By the way, what time is it, anyway?”

“Oh, about five in the morning.”

The bushman nearly spits out his drink. “That early? What're you up at five for?”

In a deadpan voice, Vince answers, “Work, duh. Plus, I have to run some errands.” He takes a sip.

“But what errands require you to be up this early? Shouldn't you be in school or somethin'?” Mort blows into his cup and does the same.

“First of all, I'm twenty-five. Second of all, you'd be surprised how much I have to do in the morning.” Another sip.

“That much, huh? Well, since I got nothin' to do, maybe I can help.”

Vincent raises a brow, skeptical. “I dunno... Can you lift lots of heavy equipment and stuff?” Mort nods. “Can you run fast?” He hesitates before sipping his cup while staring up at the Scout with puppy-dog eyes. “Er, alright, then. I doubt you can keep time all that well, considering you don't know what time it is, despite wearin' a watch.” Mort glances at his watch (which broke sometime during the road trip) before flashing a sheepish grin in Vince's direction. “But since it's either you or Mr. Doe, I guess you're the better choice. Just stick close to me, and you should be fine.”

“Wait, Janey's up, too?” The bushman isn't eager to face the Soldier again anytime soon. Or ever. He's seen what that man can do, inside and outside the field. He isn't sure if he was even human, the way he callously beats and blows up other people, including those from his own team.

Vince nods, a gloomy look on his face. “He always wakes up to do his morning exercises and stuff. He also goes out at night, though for what reasons, I don't really know.” From the sounds of things, this “Jane Doe” fellow isn't very well-liked amongst the troops. He chugs down the remainder of his coffee and smiles. “Hey, I've heard that you stopped a fight between Hart and Jane. Since you've proven that much, do you...” He hesitates briefly before continuing. “Do you think you can protect me from him? In case we run into him on the way.”

Mort tries his hardest to hide the terror he feels, but his subtly trembling hands give him away. “Sure thing! It's the least I can do.” _What_ _—_ _or_ _who_ _—_ _gave_ _him_ _that_ _idea?_ _It's_ _not_ _like_ _I_ _broke_ _up_ _a_ _fist fight_ _or_ _anything._

Unaware of the shaky mug in the Sniper's hands, the youth's mouth widens to a smile. “Thanks, sir! You're the coolest!”

Vince puts his cup in the trash and runs out the door. A moment after, Mortimer drops his half-empty cup, spilling its contents all over the floor. Today is not off to a good start.

Contrary to his expectations, the two of them are fortunate not to have run into Jane Doe in the midst of their errands. Which is good, because there's much to do before the workday begins. First, they have to buy groceries and other necessities for Hartmann, who lives in a house in the residential outskirts of town. Then they have to help deliver supplies to Teufort (thankfully, the supplier is not too far from their destination). And then there's the newspaper route, and minding the store, and more heavy lifting... 

“Do you really do all this every morning?” Mortimer says as he pushes a wooden crate into the back of the truck.

“Not always. The store's just a summer job, and I only help out Hartmann when he asks for it. Which isn't really all that often..” Vincent sets his crate on top of Mort's. “I'm not as bad as Duncan, if that's what you're asking.”

“That's not what I meant.” He accepts the box being handed to him by a Mann Co. supplier, and hands it over to Vince. “I'm just tryin' to figure out why. I mean, you've got your whole life ahead of you—you should be havin' fun!”

“I do so have fun!” He shoves the crate into the truck. “I'm just trying to earn money for... something.”

“Earn money? For what? I thought you earned enough from your scouting job?”

“I do! It's just...” He puts down his crate and sits on it. “That money's been goin' elsewhere. Boston, to be exact. The money I'm earning from these jobs is gonna go into buying a new apartment. Great as the barracks are, it feels a little too much like home. Plus, the sooner I get away from Sir Snores-a-Lot, the better!”

Both of them laugh and resume their jobs. “That's a good reason as any to move out. But does Hartmann know about this?”

Whatever joy Vincent felt a moment ago is immediately drained away. “I'd rather not tell him. Not yet, anyway. He still thinks I'm a little kid that needs to be protected. I constantly need to remind him I've grown up since then.”

The weight of the conversation is starting to burden Mort. “But he really seems to care about you. Havin' a father that loves you that much is a rarity.”

A pause, then laughter. “You seriously thought we were related?”

Now Mort is just confused. “You mean, you aren't? B-but the way he— And when you said— How could you NOT be related?”

“Relax, sir. We get that all the time. But to answer your question, we're not actually related—not by blood, at least. He's just really close friends with my mom. Nothing serious.” He averts his gaze and frowns. “I don't even have a father.”

“Oh... But you had to have had one before, right?” The bushman's question goes unanswered, and he sullenly returns to the task at hand.

As they leave the warehouse's parking lot, the two of them stop by a diner to have themselves a real breakfast. Despite doing the most running all morning, Vince doesn't order much; bacon, fried eggs, and a glass of carrot juice is enough. Meanwhile, Mortimer—who hadn't had a bite to eat since he woke up—is shoving every last bit of food into his mouth, having ordered one of everything on the menu. (Duncan, who happens to be working at the time, jokes about how he's going to eat them out of business.) After he's devoured his last muffin, he loosens his belt a notch to give his stuffed paunch room to breathe. But his body won't let him rest for very long, as a moment later, his bladder starts crying out.

While Mort leaves to rush to the john, Vincent reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small container full of oblong pills. He takes two pills, pops them into his mouth, and quickly hides the container with one hand while chugging juice with the other. This action, which has become routine to him after so many years, hardly took him more than a few seconds, but those few seconds were long enough for the one-eyed waiter to notice.

“Still takin' those vitamins,” Duncan asks in a low voice that only Vincent can hear. “Better be careful—you wouldn't want another accident, like last time, don't ya?”

Though the so-called “vitamins” are already beginning to kick in, the young man is still feeling tense, especially after being reminded of that incident. “Doc says there was a mix-up with the prescriptions. But that's been fixed since. As long as I pay close attention to what I've been given, nothing bad will happen. I'll be fine.” He gives a weak smile in an attempt to back up his statement.

The Scotsman isn't totally convinced, but at this rate, he has no other choice but to trust him. “Well, best of luck to ya, kid. Now, who'll be payin' the bill this time?”

Before Vince can answer, Mortimer returns to his seat. “Hey, Duncan! Don't worry 'bout a thing. Jus' put it on my paycheck!”

The path back to Teufort isn't a difficult one, but it's still a long walk from the diner, even moreso on a full stomach. By then, the pills are finally taking full effect, and Vincent feels more relaxed, if a bit spacey. A million thoughts are running through his mind, but he hasn't given a crap about a single one of them. Not seeing any reason to rush, he slows down enough that his bloated acquaintance is able to catch up to him easily. They chat about various subjects, beginning with hobbies and evolving into a discussion about the books they've read. Contrary to his rural upbringing, Mortimer is surprisingly knowledgeable, though his reading speed is a bit on the slow side. ( _Dyslexia,_ _perhaps_ _?_ ) The Scout assumes, despite his lack of knowledge on the subject. When the Sniper first arrived, Vince thought he would be similar to the other Snipers he's encountered: cool, terse, and more than a little bit grumpy. But the more he learned about Mort, the more the Scout believed that he was cooler than any other Sniper in Badlands.

The fun stops when they see a figure standing in the way. Mort looks at the stranger, then at Vince, then back. The person standing before them shares the same exact features as Vincent. The only notable difference between the two boys is the color of their shirts—Vince in blue, and the other in red. Judging by the expression on the blue Scout's face, he's none too pleased with the doppleganger's presence.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” The red-shirted Scout is swinging the aluminum bat with his right hand while his left is fiddling with the dog tags hanging around his neck. “It's the nervous wreck and his newbie friend. How're things back at BLU, _Kaninchen_?”

“Mind your own beeswax, _Baldo_!”

“The name is Valdo, you idiot!” He stops swinging the bat and slams the blunt end of it against the ground. “Say my name right, or I'll knock it into that tiny head of yers.” His gaze shifts towards Mortimer. “Hey, Sniper! How'd you like gettin' backstabbed by our Spy the other day?” He flashes Mort a smirk slimy enough to make any sensible person want to punch him.

Vincent whispers to the Sniper to just ignore Valdo. Mortimer hesitates at first, recalling the pain and numbness he felt on that day, but he smiles anyway. “It was enlightening, to say the least. An' don't worry—I'm sure your Spy was jus' doin' what he was asked t' do.”

Valdo's batting hand twitches, but he remains as smug as ever. “Good to know at least one of you losers at BLU have some fighting spirit—unlike some Scouts I'd like to mention. I'm almost beginning to like you already.” His left hand's no longer fiddling with his dog tags, but have since moved on to Mort's fuzzy chin. “Why're you hangin' around this worthless freak, anyway? Surely, there's people on your team that's more worthwhile. Better yet, why don't you join us? We've got a real bunch of winners over RED, an' we're just cooler.” He flashes a grin, which—buck teeth and pretentiousness aside—serves to make him look astonishingly attractive.

“Hmm...” Mortimer pretends to ponder over the question before answering. “Nah. I think I'd rather stay where I am. I've already made a bunch of good friends here.” He brushes Valdo's hand away. “Besides, dontcha think it's a bit too soon for job offers? I mean, it's only my second day.”

“... Right. Perhaps it is a bit too soon to tell.” Dropping his guard, the RED Scout tips his cap and is about to turn away, but changes his mind at the last minute. “But here's a little advice 'fore I go...” He's inches away from the both of them, and his eyes shift back and forth between the two of them. “When you're on the field, it's every man for himself. Those who can't do their job right might as well kill themselves on the spot. Nothin' holds a team back more than a merc who—”

Valdo's advice goes unfinished, as the sound of steel colliding with bone cuts him off. The RED Scout lies unconscious on the ground, and a black combat boot pokes at the bump on his head, where he was hit. As it so happens, the boot belongs to the small Soldier known to the majority of BLU as “Jane Doe”. Jane mutters to himself while inspecting the body. “Boy's got a point, but his wording's off.” _Almost_ _deliberately_ _so_ , he wants to add, but declines the action. He looks up to see the faces of the two BLU mercs he saved and frowns. “Oh. It's you two again. Well, I was just passing by, so don't expect me to save your asses again.” He's about to go on his merry way when a voice halts him.

“W-wait,” Mortimer shouts at the Soldier before he can venture too far. “You really did us a favor, gettin' rid of that RED bloke. To be honest, he was startin' to get on my nerves.”  _Just_ _“_ _starting_ _”_ _?_ The short man, his brows furrowed in puzzlement, looks at him. “B-but anyways, I wanna apologize for what happened in the lunchroom yesterday. I thought you were just an ill-tempered ankle biter, but I guess I was wrong. An' I wanna say... Thank you.”

He suddenly wraps his arms around Jane, who struggles to escape his tight embrace. Though he never says anything, the thought is apparently received, as Mort lets go and smiles at him before rushing ahead, re-energized by the positive energy that appears to constantly be emitted from him. Vincent—still shaken up by the RED Scout's words—simply smiles and tiptoes around the Soldier to follow after his friend.

In an instant, Jane is all alone again.


	7. Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Header image by Selan Pike. Commissioned and uploaded with her permission.

Neither of them have realized how much time had passed since they ventured out to complete Vince's morning errands. Miller orders them to get their ass in gear, and get them in gear they do. Despite appearing in the middle of a match, Mort and Vince manage to adapt to the flow of chaos. It takes some time for Mort to regain his composure enough to aim straight, while Vince's tired, quivering legs eventually gain the strength that allows him to run and jump about the field. One of the advantages of arriving late is that the enemy never sees them coming until it's too late. However, as Mort is beginning to learn, once a Sniper has been spotted, it's crucial that they move out quickly lest they become a target. The RED Heavy—whom the bushman assumed was an unintelligent gorilla of a man—unleashes a spray of bullets at the roost where he resides, injuring him as he flees into safety.

Whilst traveling through this way and that, trying to find that one other spot he found comfort in sniping from, he bumps into a waist-high obstacle of some sort. “Ow!” He wraps an arm around his abdomen, recovering from the impact, but the soreness is gradually replaced by a warm, tingly sensation, similar to the feeling one gets when they lie against a warm blanket or heating pad. The gunshot wounds stop stinging, and are rapidly closed up, fully healed. Mortimer looks down at the obstacle he bumped into, and kneels to its level. It looks like a dispenser of some sort, but it has a bunch of little doodads attached to it, and he swears he can see it emitting some sort of glowing aura. As if by instinct, his hand reaches to touch the machine.

The machine makes a clattering sound, and a small drawer pops out, a cartridge encased inside. Inspecting the cartridge, Mort realizes it's filled with the exact type and amount of ammo he needs. How convenient. Refilling his artillery, he turns away from the dispenser and starts running off when a strange, twitching sensation bites him. Kukri in hand, he scans his surroundings. That feeling he just had, it was the feeling of somebody's presence. But there's not a person in sight... or is there?

Suddenly, an explosion echoes in the distance. Mortimer would have passed it off as one of the Demomen at work, if it wasn't preceded by the sound of buzzing, like a machine short-circuiting. He runs in the direction of the source and stumbles upon a pile of broken parts, the remains of a high-level sentry. Looking around, he finds no sign of Miller. Where his head barks orders to save himself, his gut rebels, and he searches the building for the Engineer.

It doesn't take long for Mort to find him. Lying in an unmoving heap is Miller, bleeding from his chest. Slowly, the pieces begin to connect. The sensation, the sentry's destruction, Miller's death... It can only be one thing. “Spy!”

As if on cue, the Spy comes out of hiding. Unlike Alan, his suit is the color of dried blood, and his graceful, upright stature implies he's been at this for a long, long time. Twirling the butterfly knife with one hand, he slowly approaches the Sniper. “Doesn't take a monkey zhis long to figure zhat out. Zhen again, if you were smarter zhan a monkey, you Snipers would not be such easy targets.” He stops fiddling with the knife and holds it straight, as if he is wielding a rapier. “Come now. Let us dance.”

Mortimer mimics the RED Spy's movements, accepting his offer, and the duel begins. Mort has the advantage in range and physical strength, but his movements lack grace and speed, and his strikes rarely hit his opponent. “Give up now, filthy dog!” The RED merc quips as he parries the kukri and almost stabs Mort in the eye. The Spy's accent sounds similar to that of his own Spy, but heavier, as if he had lived in Europe all his life. Combined with his graceful demeanor, he resembles—in Mort's eyes—Alan all too greatly. No longer is he angry at the Spy, but rather curious. Where did he come from? Does he know Alan at all? Do all Spies speak French, as he does? Perhaps if they stop fighting for just a moment...

Unwittingly, the blade of his kukri sticks itself into the RED Spy's abdomen. Mort removes the knife, letting the RED fall to the ground. His breathing is shallow, but he's still alive. “ _Merde_ ,” the Spy curses under his breath. “It seems zhe fool has won zhis round. Come closer, Mortimer. Tell me... What do you know about zhe BLU Spy, Alan?”

The Sniper's not surprised that his foe knows his name—he wrote it off as a Spy thing a long time ago—but is dumbfounded when he asks about his own Spy. “He's really nice, though a bit odd in the head. Can't say I know much about 'im, but he's the closest thing I have to a best friend here.”

The RED Spy chuckles and wheezes. “Oh, how little you know about him! How little you know!” He raises a hand to brush his fingers against Mort's sideburns and whispers, “Tell dear Alan... Daddy's here.” His hand drops, and his body stops moving.

Letting dead dogs lie, Mortimer stands up and heads back in the direction where he last found the dispenser. As he probably should have expected, it's no longer there; like the sentry, it died along with its maker. He can hear the Announcer counting down the seconds, but his mind's too far gone for it to matter. As the round ends and his teammates on the field rally about to celebrate, he merely heads back to the locker room. He's in no mood to fight.

“Somethin' the matter, pardner?” Mort turns around, and standing there is the man whom, just moments ago, was shot and left for dead. Though the Sniper is perfectly aware of the Respawn System's effects, it doesn't stop him from feeling the warm sense of relief that Miller's presence brings.

“I, uh, it's nothin', really,” Mort sputters out. “Just not really in a fightin' mood today, I guess.” He can't tell him about what the RED Spy told him. Spies probably have some sort of confidentiality agreement about these sorts of things. “You feelin' alright, mate? You got in quite a kablooey, I figured.”

The Engineer laughs. “Eh, it's hardly anything. Just a Spy doin' his job. Anywho, I'd better get back t' work. See ya around!”

Mort watches the Engineer head for the gates, and before he knows it, he blurts out, “Wait!” Miller, confounded, stares back at the Sniper. “I was jus' thinking... Maybe we can, um, go for a stroll 'round town later today? Get a quick bite to eat? Hang out? Like-like...”

“Pals?” Mort blushes and softly concurs. Miller scratches his chin as he ponders over the proposal. “Well... Oh, why the heck not? Sheldon can take my place.” He slides his toolbox into his locker and locks it up tightly. “I know a great place on Blitz Creek Street. We can take my truck.”

The entire truck drive over to Blitz Creek Street, Mort's stomach is overflowing with butterflies, all of them as restless as he. But it's not a terrible feeling; he's actually quite ecstatic. Looking out, he begins to notice a pattern in the distribution of the buildings in the commercial area: no matter which turn or road they go down, there is a guarantee that one will never find a BLU-sponsored business standing right next to a RED one.

As Miller explains, mercenaries are—by technicality—allowed to buy or spend their money in any store, but as a means to prevent loophole-induced betrayal, stores will sell the items at obnoxiously high prices to customers on the team opposite their sponsors. “Doesn't stop some folks, though,” he says lightheartedly. “'Course, there are some exceptions. Some businesses, such as restaurants an' bars, have a 'neutral territory' policy, which allows for more leeway in prices an' a bit of cross-faction mingling, so long as no one causes a ruckus.” Shortly after he finishes his bit of exposition, he catches up to the restaurant—a lavish, pagoda-like building with a bright red roof and decorated with golden lanterns at each corner—and swerves to park his pickup. “Well, we're here. I don't normally eat in these places back at home, but there's a good variety of food here. It's quite interesting.”

The two of them enter the restaurant, and Mort stares, absolutely gobsmacked, by the sight before him. Sturdy red pillars rise up to the ceiling, like titans joining together to carry the sky, and above each table hangs large, round lanterns made of red paper. Serpent-like dragons adorn the walls, flying though cotton-like clouds outlined in gold. Waitresses in qipao carry trays of delectable food to the tables. Contrasting with the exotic elegance of the rest of the place is a sign above the enclosed bar in the center, which has an adorable-looking panda mascot decorated in traditional Chinese garb.

Miller drags him over to the nearest empty table. It doesn't take long for a server to notice them and approach them. “Nihao! Welcome to Kanpai's!” The Sniper snaps out of his trance long enough to notice him. The person serving them is wearing a helmet—the trademark of a Soldier—and a red outfit trimmed with gold, the silhouette of which resembles something worn by characters in martial arts films. Unlike the tall, beautiful waitresses walking around, the Soldier is short and boyish in appearance and voice.

The Engineer smiles and says, “Hey, Zhen. This is Mortimer Mundy, our new Sniper. I've been showing 'im around.”

The server bows in Mortimer's direction. “Nihao, Mundy-san. My name is Dou Zhen—I mean, Zhen Dou—but you can call me Zhen. Or Dou-san. Whichever you prefer.”

“Gaday, Zhen-y. You can jus' call me Mort. No need to get all fancy with me.”

“B-but, aren't you my senpai? I mean, my superior?” Noting the confusion on Mort's face, Zhen sighs and continues. “A-anyway, here are your menus.” Hands trembling, the Soldier gives the two BLU mercs their menus and rushes to get food delivered to another table.

Miller turns his attention to Mort. “So, what do you think so far? Pretty nifty, huh?”

Not to his surprise, Mortimer's grinning from ear to ear. “This is great! I've never been to an Oriental restaurant before. We never had these back at home.” He scratches at his temple. “Actually, I don't think I've ever seen any Orientals back at home.”

“Is that so?” Miller smiles, feigning interest in the bushman's conversation. “Then you're gonna love the food.” Just hearing the word “food” causes Mort to brighten up and flip through the menu like a madman. _He's an overgrown puppy of a man_ , he muses to himself.

Moments later, Zhen returns. “S-sorry for the delay. We're very busy at lunchtime, as you can see. What would you like?”

“I'll have the usual root beer an' ribs, thank you.” He hands his menu over to the server and looks at Mort. “How 'bout you? An' don't worry—lunch is on me.” As if relieved to hear that, Mortimer proceeds to order a little bit of practically everything the place has to offer, plus a beer. By the end of it, Miller—regretting his earlier offer—repeats bitterly under his breath, “Lunch is on me.”

After bringing their big lunch to the table, Mort asks Zhen—currently on break—to sit down and chat with them. Along with other menial things, such as family and the restaurant, they talk about mercenary work and training. “I'm not an official member of RED yet because I'm still a minor, but I am currently in training,” Zhen says. “I've been a student at SOLDR for almost six years now. When I graduate next month and turn eighteen, it's only then I can call myself a Soldier.”

SOLDR—known as the Secret Organization for Learners of Demolition and Rocket-jumping—is an under-the-radar educational facility which trains children from the ages of thirteen to seventeen the essentials of battle: from bombs to rockets to explosives-based self-propellance to grenade launching, this is the school where many Demomen and Soldiers were made. They don't take just anyone, though: through a long, convoluted process, they cherry-pick from the youths of the world's population and bring them into shelter for training. According to statistics, many of these youths were either kidnapped, or orphaned, or both; Zhen was one such exception to the rule. “I was enrolled because of my family history. My grandbaba was a Soldier, and so was Baba. So it was inevitable that I, too, would be chosen.” The youth smiles casually, as if such a predicament was normal.

“Wow! That must be hard work. Maybe that's why Janey's such a hardass.”

“'Janey'? Is he someone from your team?”

Mortimer nods. “He's a Grumpy Mcjerkface, but he doesn't seem all bad. Why, you know him?”

“I can't say for sure. 'Jane Doe' is the school's go-to alias for Soldiers—confidentiality reasons. I'm too proud of my heritage to change my name.”

_Not_ _that_ _it_ _sounds_ _any_ _different_ , Miller wishes to point out. “Well, he's a bit older than you, anyway. Probably too old to be even an upperclassman.” _Not_ _“_ _probably_ _”—_ definitely. He's done the math in his head.

Zhen sighs in disappointment. “Well, unless he's teaching classes part-time or something, that means I'll have to wait a while longer until I can see him.”

Mort, sensing the student's glumness, munches on some noodles. Suddenly, a light bulb turns on in his head. “Unless we bring him over here for dinner!”

Zhen's face brightens up. “Really? Tell him he's welcome anytime! We'll even give him a special Soldier's discount.” The Soldier-in-training stops speaking and stares at Mort's hands as he picks at his food with the chopsticks. “By the way, you're using them wrong. You've gotta hold them like this.” Zhen takes the Sniper's hands and fiddles around with the fingers until they are holding the sticks correctly, then takes the extra pair Miller left untouched and shows him how to use them. “It's tricky at first, but once you get the hang of it, it feels more like using tongs.” Zhen isn't sure why, but holding Mort's hand like this feels weird somehow. As if his kindness and warmth is spreading through to the child's body, burning his cheeks and creating a ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's a weird feeling, but a nice one, as well.

Under the student Soldier's tuteledge, Mort masters the art of wielding chopsticks in almost no time at all, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of this new skill. Eventually, all their plates are cleared, their leftovers packaged into styrofoam boxes and paper bags, and the extensive bill paid by a weary Engineer. As the BLU duo head back to the truck, Mortimer chirps, “Thanks for bringin' me over here, Miller. You were right—the food was _delicious!_ An' Zhen was a really nice sheila. I hope we can see 'er again soon.”

Miller raises a brow. “'Sheila'? Mort, Zhen's a _boy_.”

This revelation shocks Mort, like lightning striking a tree dead-on. “B-b-but she—er, he, he's so small an' cute an'...!” His words devolve into unintelligible blubbering as he attempts to process this information. Standing less than five feet, with chubby cheeks and soft fingers, combined with a high-pitched voice, Zhen could easily pass for a girl, if he wanted to. _An' Lord knows what he looks like under that helmet of his..._

Attempting to prevent the Sniper from suffering a total meltdown, Miller puts his ungloved hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry 'bout it. He gets all of us the first time. Heck, he even threw me for a loop! Alls there is to do is roll with it.” Mort takes in the shorter man's words and heaves a deep breath of relief. “Now, you feelin' in the mood to head back?” This time, the bushman is less certain, cringing at the thought of being on the field again; the pain is obvious in his eyes. “Well, I'll let it go just this once. But you're gonna have to head back eventually. No point in bein' here if you can't stand yer ground and fight for yer life. That's the gosh-darned honest truth!”

His shoulders slumped and fingers balled up into fists, Mort replies bitterly, “I know. It's not my life I'm afraid of. It's yours, and Vincent's, an' everybody else's! Respawn System or not, the feeling doesn't hurt any less, seeing everyone around me gettin' killed. How can you treat this like it's normal? It's wrong, that's what this is! I—”

His rant is suddenly interrupted by a slap so hard, it feels not unlike what Valdo must have felt when assaulted by Jane's shovel. The wrist of Miller's gloved hand twitches and rotates as it readjusts itself back to normal. The Engineer's face is contorted with a tranquil fury that Mort has never seen before. His voice matches his expression, though it also quivers with a hint of bitter sadness. “If it's so wrong, then why did you choose to come here? You're a hunter, for god's sake—act like one! We all have to get used to it, watching our closest friends and companions die over and over. It's a cruel game Fate likes to play, and we are all her pawns.” He stares down at his gloved hand and mutters, “Just pawns in a chessboard.”

Mortimer is unsure what to say; Miller just slapped the words right out of him. He knows he doesn't act like a hunter should, and he knows he never would. So why did he come here? Why travel down this path that he so hated? Well, it was because he happened to be good at it. Recalling the days when he would shoot cans from a distance, just as his dad taught him; the days when he wielded his rifle against wild dingos and other ferocious critters that tended to wander onto his farmlands; the days when he would hunt game, just to vent out his frustrations over recent squabbles with his dad. Because he learned to master the rifle, he chose to make a living out of it, despite his father's protests and despite his own pacifistic beliefs. Though he loathed the idea of taking lives, human or not, it paid good money, and when you're a runaway minor with nothing but a gun and the clothes on your back, you'd do whatever it takes to survive. He's lived more than half of his life in a constant battle with himself, and it wasn't until this man, who, just a day ago, was a total stranger to him, forced him to realize it.

Left with no other choice, Mort wraps his arms around the shorter man and embraces him tightly. Miller is taken aback, and not all too happy with being touched in such a way, but he gradually cools down and awkwardly pats his taller comrade in the back. Slowly, but surely, he can feel the pain seep away from him, leaving behind a feeling of numbness.


	8. The Test of Things to Come

After sharing that embrace with Miller, Mort decided to return to the battlefield, if not for the Engineer's sake, then for his own. He got into this mess, he reminded himself, and now he's gonna trek through it like a man ought to. It's surprising how used to the idea of death and revival he got, how he could get slaughtered in all manners of gruesome fatalities, and still come back stronger than ever. Perhaps, he thought, this wouldn't be so bad after all. Sure, it's painful, but with every Respawn, he would return with a new found wisdom. It's almost Zen-like, the way he approached this strange fate, and he assumed this was how the others had come to terms with it. Still, he could not help but worry about how this would affect him in the long run, this desensitization to the chaos and violence which had grown redundant to him. Shortly after his last round ended, he thanked his lucky stars that he was a Sniper and not a front-line mercenary.

Returning to the dorm where he and Alan were to reside, he found the Scout nowhere in sight. According to the Spy, Vince made some arrangements with another merc and was to bunk with him until further notice. Mort was relieved to have a proper bed for the first time since he came here, but also a bit disappointed to see him go. Alan then went on to ramble on about his first day on the field; unlike the Sniper, he was a little too happy to talk about backstabbings and sabotage. But the subject reminded Mort of what happened earlier that day, and he had to bring up what the RED Spy told him.

Presently, Alan is sitting beside Mortimer, and on the verge of tears. “Daddy... Daddy's on RED?” No longer does he feel any joy for his occupation; not when he's going up against the very man that raised him. “But why? Why RED? Why not BLU? Did zhey scout him out first?” All Mort can do is shrug. Realizing how hopeless the situation is, Al wipes his tears with the back of his hand. “Well, I suppose it's too late to ask questions now. I'll just have to treat zhis like any ozher test.”

“Test?”

Alan nods. “I probably shouldn't tell you zhis, but... Growing up, I was a member of an organization called SPAI—zhe School of Personification, Assassination, and Intelligence. It's a place where they take in kids without homes or past lives and train zhem in zhe art of espionage, particularly the fatal sort.” _So_ _it's_ _like_ _SOLDR_ , Mort realizes as Zhen's explanation of the organization runs through his mind. “Daddy was one of the instructors zhere. He can do all kinds of things, but disguise is his specialty. He found me and raised me and taught me everyzhing he knows about spying. He's zhe best Spy I know! Unfortunately, I'm a failure as a student. I failed almost every subject, save for intelligence, so zhey sent me over to BLU for further training. I think zhey sent Daddy over to RED to test me. Zhat's why I said zhat, you get it?” Alan's lips curl up into a smile, but it's quite blatantly forced, so he drops the act. “Mort... I'm scared. What if I fail? I'll get kicked out of SPAI, and zhen what?”

Mort wraps his arm around the Spy's shoulders and pulls him closer. “I dunno how things work at this 'SPAI' place, but I do know how it's like to face failure. Or the feeling of it, anyway. I never went to high school. Hell, I dropped out of middle school. I flunked most of my subjects 'cause I could never catch up with the other kids, so I left. Pissed my parents right off!” He chuckles weakly. “But anyways, if you fail a test, what the hell does it matter? It's not the end of the world if you don't get a fancy diploma from some poppycock school. As long as you've learned somethin' in the end, why worry 'bout passing?” Alan stares at him, confused and more than a little uneasy, and Mort pinches his cheek. “I know what you're thinkin'. 'Mort, are you implying that I should give up? That's not exactly a great life lesson to teach to the children.' Al, I never said givin' up's the answer. You gotta keep tryin' your best, regardless of the results. If you fail one test, there'll always be other tests along the way. So keep on truckin', mate!”

He lets go of Alan, and the poor Spy is left dumbfounded, but more thoughtful. Rubbing his cheek, he smiles—genuinely this time—and says, “Thanks, Mort. Zhat was certainly... insightful. I'll keep zhat in mind next time.” Pause. “Say, if you never even passed middle school, how would you expect to get a job anywhere?”

“Dunno, exactly. I guess I could take some special courses or somethin', try to get one of them there GEDs or whatever. But I doubt I'd be able to do that much. I'm just an idiot, plain an' simple.” He shakes his head, getting rid of the thought. “But this ain't about me. It's about you. And I know for a fact that you can do it. I've seen what you can do—now take it to the next level!”

“I thought you were being sarcastic.”

“I... Well, maybe I was at the time. But I know what you are good at, an' it's about high time you took advantage of that.”

“What I am good at...?” His eyes turn away, a little lost.

“Think about it for a bit.” He stands up. “Now, how 'bout a quick bite 'fore we go to bed?”

The Spy giggles, his lovely blue eyes attracted to Mort again. “Anozher snack? You're gonna make me fat!”

Mort laughs along and pats Alan on the head. “Well, even pixies like you gotta grow.”

His touch sends a rush through the Spy's body, flushing his cheeks under his mask. “Ch... Chocolate... cake,” Alan squeaks, overwhelmed by nerves. As soon as it came, Mort's hand moves away from his head and he gives him a quick “Gotcha” before walking out the door. The moment he hears the door close, Alan rushes over to the top bunk and slips out a diary (pen attached) from under his pillow. Avidly, he scribbles out the next chapter of his story.

_Eventually, the travelers finally managed to break free from the forest and found their way into a thriving town. During their travels, Archer mentioned to Anonyme that he was searching for Sapphire Castle; his life's dream was to become a knight for the king. As it turned out, the path they were taking lead to the very town he was looking for. What luck!_

_But when they reached the outside of the castle, they were met not by the king, but a pretty young lady in purple. Amethyst was not royalty, but rather a mere servant. To make up for the inconvenience, she showed the hunter and the sprite around the castle. Along the way, they encountered the Seven Knights of Sapphire. The first Knight they met was Rammzig, a kindly, but stubborn man whose hands are burnt and rough from working long hours forging metal. The second was his mysterious comrade, Arson, a masked Knight who could control fire. Then there was Harrington, a speedy youngster who was a little bit high-strung, and Baron, a stone giant who showed little tolerance for unnecessary shenanigans. They also had a rather scary run-in with the ill-tempered Captain Raccs, though thankfully, the one-eyed rogue, Wolfe, stepped in to protect them. In the medical bay was the seventh Knight, Henn Taube, a large man with majestic, bird-like wings—a faerie folk of some sort._

_The Knights saw potential in the newcomers and decided to test them in battle against the Knights of Ruby. It wasn't easy, but Archer passed with flying colors. Anonyme, however, fell ill during her journey, and had to be tended to by Archer shortly afterwards. While bedridden, Anonyme confessed to her fears of failing, especially her father. Archer confessed to her about his past failures, and told her that, no matter what, she should never give up on her dream, and to keep trying until she succeeds. His words warmed the young sprite's heart and motivated her to return to the battlefield..._

Alan shuts the book and puts it back in its hiding spot just as soon as he hears the door creak open. Mort enters, a tray of cake and milk in each hand, and places them on top of the dresser. Excitedly, Alan scampers down the ladder and sits beside the Sniper. Together, they indulge in delicious cake and laugh and chat themselves until they both fall asleep on the bottom bunk. The bed's a mess, and Mort smells awful, even after a long shower, but Alan is too lost in his bliss to care.


	9. Through the Fire and the Flames

_Fire. Scathingly hot, he can feel it burning all around him. The creak of wood, the pouring of light rain as it tries to put out the flames. He opens his eyes and looks around. He's trapped in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and breathing through an oxygen mask. Nothing's burning, not anymore. Listening closely, he can hear gentle, classical music playing in the distance. He can't quite name the tune, but he gets the feeling it was composed by a Russian, or maybe a German. (For some reason, no other nationality comes to mind.)_

_Overwhelmed by curiosity, he unhooks the IV, removes the mask, and steps out of the bed. He walks past the empty hospital beds and heads towards the door at the end of the room. Slowly, he reaches for the knob, when suddenly, a pair of hands grab him from behind and pull him into the darkness._

_Alan's eyes widen and he shoots himself up. The bed is the same as it was before, but Mortimer is no longer beside him. Dread wells up inside of him as he slips out of the bottom bunk and steadily climbs to the top one. Pulling out his diary, he lowers his pen towards the paper... and stops. This wasn't the first time he's had that dream. It's not always as it was last night—sometimes, he would be trapped in the bed while the fire surrounds him, sometimes the kidnapper would attack him from the front, sometimes he would hear nothing, but see everything—but regardless of how the pieces are arranged, it was still the same dream. He had also attempted to write it down in the past, but whenever he tried, the words would escape him—almost as if something was holding him back._

He hears a soft, childish giggle echoing in his ear. “Bad dream, Herr Astor?” Alan twists around to figure out who said that. He finds nothing, but a sudden chill permeates the area close to him. Nervous, he clambers down the steps and digs through his drawers for something new and clean to wear.

Alan's always had a weakness for wanting to stand out. Though SPAI has a strict dress code, which student and instructor strive to uphold, he would find ways to alter it while still adhering to it (most of the time). Even his haircut goes against school standards, which specifically states that their hair not surpass a certain length, to keep it easy to conceal under their trademark balaclava. Today, he's decided to pass on the suit jacket—the weather's much too warm for that, anyway—and don a navy blue vest bearing the same pinstripe pattern. Additionally, he wanted to add a feminine touch to his attire, and thus picked out a blouse with poofy shoulders and tied a cute bow around the collar. The mask had to stay, much to his chagrin. Finely dressed, he takes his dirty laundry and happily skips out of the showers and towards the laundry room, ready to take on the day.

All eyes are on Alan as he walks through the doors to the cafeteria... or so he likes to think. In reality, he's received little more than the odd glance here and there, along with an occasional mutter questioning his gender or sexuality (which he brushes off, because they are—to some extent—undeniably true). But positive or not, as long as the illusion of having captured everyone's attention is there, there's little point in worrying about the little things. He strides over to the line and picks out his minuscule breakfast.

The room is packed with perky early birds and grumpy not-so-early birds, and the Spy is finding it increasingly difficult to find a spot anywhere. Eventually, he finds a table that's empty, save for a sole figure: a giant, balding bear of a man. The man is eating a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon, along with what appears to be a sandwich of some sort. Alan cautiously approaches the giant and asks, “Um, is this seat taken?” while pointing at the seat across from him. (Up close, this man appears to be even taller than Hartmann, who was already titanic in size.) The large man grunts and shakes his head, and Alan thanks him as he claims the spot.

For a long while, the two of them eat in silence, Alan finishing his meal in a quarter of the time it takes for the giant to finish his. After an eternity and a half, the giant says, “I didn't realize new Spy was girl.”

Alan's eyes widen like saucers. “Uh, I'm not a girl... Zhat is to say, I got a... Well, I'm a guy. Sort of.”

“'Sort of'? You are either boy or girl. Is not that difficult.”

“It's not like zhat! I mean, I have guy parts, but I, erm, I sometimes... Well, it's more of a mental thing, you see?”

“Maybe.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich. “So you are sometimes boy and sometimes girl. Iz this some sort of Spy thing?”

“No, it's just a 'me' thing.” The conversation is wearing out Alan more quickly than he expected. “Say, aren't you Vince's roommate, Pasha?”

The man grunts and nods. “He is roommate, but not friend. Doktor and I do not get along.”

“You mean Doctor Hartmann, right?” Pasha nods again. “But I've seen you two in battle. You two seemed to work pretty well zhen.”

“Doktor is incompetent. Cannot charge, can barely heal. Prefers fighting to protecting.”

“Now, I'm sure zhat's not true. I've seen zhe good doctor, and I think he really does care about you guys.” Pasha says nothing, and continues to eat while Alan speaks. “Yeah, he's a little bit grumpy and violent, but I zhink if you give him a chance, he'll lighten up. I mean, he seems awfully nice around Duncan, and of course Vincent. And Mort's really taken a liking to him. So maybe if you can talk to him...” He trails off, not wanting to finish his statement. It's becoming clear that sappy friendship speeches are Mort's forte, not his.

Pasha's eyes shift back and forth, as he chews. Then he swallows and says, “Do not talk about Hartmann. Talk about yourself. What does teeny Spy like?”

Alan is dumbfounded; he's never expected to be asked so directly. “Wait, me? Oh, well, I like pretty clothes... and books... and writing and art. I doubt you'd be interested, though...”

Surprisingly, Pasha's face lightens up. “You like books? I love books, and reading! I studied English back in Soviet Russia, taught it, even. Of course, you would not know from my speaking. I read and write much better than I speak. You say you write, yes? What do you like writing?”

“I mostly just write in my diary. Silly little stories about fairies and knights in shining armor. Childish stuff, really.”

“Nothing wrong with a little fantasy. I prefer literature, more down-to-earth stories, but sometimes I would pick up Tolkien or Lewis. Science fiction tries to be like realistic fantasy, but is too pretentious for me.” He finishes off his sandwich and smiles. “When you finish writing story, let me read it first. I like seeing other people's writing.”

Alan stutters a bit before smiling back and replying, “Yes. I definitely will.” A pause, then: “Say, Pasha, I don't suppose you have any advice on writer's block, have you?”

Pasha, about to leave, turns his attention to the Spy. “Many of my students had same problem. I tell them to just write things plainly and simply. It looks bad on paper, but leetle by leetle, what they have in head will eventually come out. Just write, and it will come to you.” And he's gone.

His words keep spinning over and over in his head. _Just_ _write,_ _and_ _it_ _will_ _come_ _to_ _you..._ For a man who, based on appearance, speech patterns, and occupation, appears stupid, Alan had never felt more inspired by any other man. Well, except maybe his father and Mort, but they're special for different reasons. Pasha was the first person to whom he had ever confessed to writing a story, or keeping a diary, or loving books. Though being a bookworm was not something to hide, for Alan, the fact that he writes as a hobby is something he preferred to keep to himself. After all, the stories he writes represent a part of his soul, and to casually show that part of him to somebody is unthinkable.  _But_ _Pasha_ _seemed_ _eager_ _to_ _read_ _it._ _And_ _he_ _didn't_ _laugh_ _when_ _I_ _told_ _him_ _I_ _liked_ _fantasy._ _Maybe_ _I'll_ _let_ _him_ _read_ _a_ _tiny_ _portion_ _of_ _my_ _story..._ _when_ _I'm_ _feeling_ _a_ _little_ _braver._

The Spy did not do too well at first. Wholly unfamiliar with the enemy team dynamics and overly eager to put his masks to use, he disguised himself as a Sniper when the team had none that round, and thus made himself an obvious target. Then he de-cloaked himself too early, exposing himself to the Engineer before he had a chance to defend himself. Then there was that situation he got himself into when his backstab missed, leaving him open to the Medic's bonesaw. But as he became accustomed to his surroundings and enemy, he proved himself capable of slithering in and out of the enemy's base with the intelligence in hand. He recalled what Mortimer told him, about taking advantage of what he was good at, and it wasn't until he got onto the battlefield that it finally clicked. Disguises—one of the Spy's main gimmicks—are not his specialty. However, his hacking and intel-collecting abilities are par none, at least compared to other young Spies he can think of, especially when combined with his nimbleness and agility. Perhaps his bookworminess isn't a total waste of a talent.

Inspired by today's events, he rushes right over to his diary and opens it. He skips a page ahead of his last entry and starts writing. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to get the basics down.

_Fire._ _Hospital_ _bed._ _Music._ _Mysterious_ _figure._ _Dragged_ _into_ _darkness._

After putting down the keywords, he presses the pen against the paper and continues, struggling against his increasingly fogged-up psyche.

_Ballerina_ _in_ _black._ _Orphanage._ _Two_ _kids._ _Hannah?_ _Sklcanieacewrsdllriercherdfacheioshrescherlslsklascerisfcersifcerlsfhtfttaceraceradcioarneiolcenrieos_

At this point, his mind is drawing a complete blank, so his pen is being controlled solely by instinct, his wrist moving loosely like a doll whose joints are worn out. Snapping back to reality, he slips his diary and pen back under the pillow and lies down. He doesn't recall seeing anything about ballerinas or children in his dreams, and he definitely never met anyone significant named “Hannah”. So why did he write those words? And why does his mind become hazy when he tries to record anything involving his dreams? _Something_ _is_ _holding_ _me_ _back,_ _I_ _just_ _know_ _it!_ He blinks and closes his eyes, and the world fades to black.

Suddenly, he hears giggling again, same as this morning. “Is somezhing wrong, Aninnyme?” Alan sits upright and—with cold, emotionless eyes—stares straight in the direction of the voice. Standing at the foot of the ladder is a young girl, with snow-white skin and long, ivory hair. Her clothes are a mishmash of accessories and garments belonging to various mercenary classes, making it impossible to tell just what her specialty is.

“My name is Anonyme,” he says, his voice flatter and more feminine in tone and pitch. “I did not expect to reawaken so soon, but 'Alan' was getting too nosy. That's the problem with artificial personalities: they grow too comfortable with their host bodies and become unstable.”

The girl frowns. “He doesn't seem so bad. I think I like him more zhan you.”

“Anonyme” shows no signs of contempt, but they start climbing down the ladder, prompting the girl to step aside. “Miss Alterheim, please consider the situation. If this behavior of his continues, I will be forced to override him completely. Sir Petrinni created 'Alan' as a means to distract him from the truth of his past, that way he—that is, we—can achieve what he had always wanted—”

They stop speaking, as they lose their footing and have to be supported by the “Alterheim” girl's hair, itself a controllable, limb-like entity. “The perfect Spy,” she finishes for them. “Ja, I know. Still pretty ambitious, if you ask me.” Helping Anonyme out the door, she blurts out, “Wohin gehst?”

“Out.” In an instant, the one who calls themselves “Anonyme” is gone.

According to the note they took from the intelligence suitcase Alan swiped earlier that day, the meeting spot should be under a tree in the local park. Anonyme knew the note was meant for them, as it took the form of an innocuous-looking grocery list, a set of coordinates in the guise of something apparently useless. Having patrolled the area the night before, they have a general idea of where most of the town's landmarks are, including the residential outskirts and the restaurant known as “Kanpai's”. They arrive at the stroke of midnight, spotting the silhouette of a tall figure underneath the tree. Under the pale moonlight, the figure's sharp features are accentuated; his broad shoulders, his crooked nose, his prominent cheekbones.

They approach the figure and bow, a tiny smile creeping upwards. “Hello, father.”

The figure—holding a cigarette between two long, slender fingers—steps forward, narrowing the distance. “What have I told you about calling me zhat, Anonyme? You are to call me 'Sir Petrinni' and nothing else.” He drops the cig—at a distance uncomfortably close to Anonyme—and crushes it. “Report your progress.”

No longer smiling, Anonyme reports, talking as if reading from a script read a million times over. “'Alan' is beginning to show signs of self-awareness, moreso than usual. While his behavior has not changed much, he is suspecting a pattern in the recurring dreams he has been having, and had recently uncovered bits of his memories previously unreported. Though fortunately, he has yet to find a clear connection. Physically, he appears to be doing better than usual, possibly as a result of the rookie Sniper's doting personality. But emotionally, he is feeling... conflicted.”

“Conflicted? Over what? Explain.”

“I am uncertain of the details, but he seems to have... feelings towards the Sniper. Strong feelings. Strange feelings.”

“I see... Well, then. Carry on.”

“But fath—Sir Petrinni! If this continues...”

“Zhen he will become easier to override. Once you do zhat, you will no longer have to worry about zhat pest.” Petrinni's hands grasp Anonyme's shoulders and squeezes them tightly. “You can get your body and identity back. You can finally be free, O Nameless One!”

Anonyme's eyes widen for a moment, taking in this information. “Yes...” A tear runs down their eye. “No longer will I be the Nameless One. I will become Alan Ian Astor... _forever_.”


	10. Strangers in the Night

For being late to work one too many times, Hartmann punished Mort by making him work the night shift for the next two weeks. Grumbling about how blown out of proportion this punishment was, Mort heads for the fortress. While there are fewer REDs to fight, there are also fewer BLUs around to interact with, thus making these shifts duller than any other. Plus, there's the fact that he's stuck doing janitorial work, cleaning the blood and dirt off the floors and restocking the ammo in the Resupply room (wait, you mean the Resupply isn't just magically unlimited? Blasphemy!). On the bright side, the view is simply majestic, with the moon looming over the RED fortress and sparkling on the waters underneath the bridge.

As he sweeps the dirt out the door, he hears the skittering and chattering of the creatures of the night. Two glowing, beady eyes stare at him for a second, then scatters off in search of food. Mort can't help but smile; he hasn't had the chance to see many animals since he came here. But his joy doesn't last for long, as another sight forces him into hiding. Peering out from behind a wall, he watches as a figure travels across the bridge into RED. He cannot see the figure's face, but he has a rousing suspicion that they're not here to clean house, er, fort.

As soon as the figure is barely within sight, the bushman makes his first move. He's no Spy, but years in the Outback have taught him the benefits of being stealthy. Armed with his trusty blade, he warily approaches the mystery person, taking care not to catch their attention.

_CREAK!_

One toe lands on a wobbly plank on the bridge, and the figure whips their head in his direction. Thankfully, Mortimer proved himself agile enough to avoid getting caught—though it certainly won't be easy getting himself up from underneath the bridge. Grabbing hold of the edge, he clambers up and over the waist-high fence that lines the walkway. Then—more cautious of the flimsy boards holding him above water—he tiptoes his way to the other side.

His journey is interrupted by a single call. “SPY!!” The shrill sounds of gunfire and booms of bombs going off echo loudly from the fortress. Having sworn he felt a bullet fly by his cheek, instinct takes over and he jumps right into the river. Under the shadow of the bridge he waits, listening closely for a ceasefire. In a moment, all is silent, save for a sigh of relief vented from his lips. Sodden with smelly river water, he finds himself in no condition to clean after himself, instead running straight for the barracks. _Screw the Doc's orders—I almost lost my life!_

But wandering largely unfamiliar territory in the dead of night proves to be quite the task. Lost and alone, Mortimer wants nothing more than a warm place to sit down and rest. As he stumbles about, his ears catch a soft, lyrical sound. Curious, he follows the sound, hearing the twanging of the notes as they grow louder and clearer. Eventually, he catches a wisp of orange light in the distance, and begins to walk faster. As he predicted, the source of light is coming from a campfire, set up and lit by the source of the sound: the Engineer, plucking away at the acoustic guitar in his hands.

“Miller?” Mort says, a mix of relief and puzzlement in his voice. “What're you doin' out here?” Not bothering to wait for his permission, he settles down and starts stripping. “I thought you'd be asleep by now.”

Too exasperated to deal with Mort's shenanigans, Miller replies, “Sometimes, I like to just sit under the stars an' play my music.” He stops playing and shows off his guitar; he's clearly quite proud of it. “So what're you up to?” He takes note of Mort's stringy, dripping hair and wringing excess water from his blouse. “Did it rain earlier?”

“Jumped into the river,” the Aussie grumbles. “I tried to tail somebody coming into RED, but I think they're gone by now.”

“Oh. Well, that would certainly explain all the ruckus.” A raccoon squeaks as it runs by. “Looks like Janey's up to something.”

Mort blinks. “Janey's up, too?” _When_ isn't _he awake, anyway? Does he even sleep?_

He nods and points at the raccoon running off. “Jane tends to the 'coons this time of night. He's had more than a couple of run-ins with RED's night watch because of it.”

The two of them watch the stripe-tailed critter rush in the direction of what Mort recognizes as the fortresses. “We should help 'im. It wouldn't feel right if he got himself killed over a couple of 'coons.”

“Not a couple,” a voice says from behind Miller. Turning his head, he and Mort see Jane Doe, cradling a young raccoon in his arms while several others circle and climb on him. “A whole family. They've been taking residence around the forts, especially RED's.” Jane's voice softens as he speaks. “I thought it'd be safer if I brought them to the barracks.”

He bows his head, trying to hide the disappointment that must be clear on his face, especially to Mort, whom he'd rather not get involved in his personal issues. Unfortunately, the Sniper has a habit of meddling into others' affairs, and this time is no exception. “Can I help? I can't guarantee nothin', but it's obvious you can't do this job yerself.”

From under his helmet, Jane's eyes peek at Mortimer's eager, borderline dopey smile. With some reluctance, he answers, “Put on some clothes and follow me. We can catch Lieutenant Blackstar together. Milller, bring his kids to the barracks.” He shoves the baby raccoon in Miller's arms and starts walking in the direction where the raccoon— _Lt. Blackstar?_ —ran off, followed by Mort.

Finding Lt. Blackstar is not too difficult, as Jane knows the animal's nightly rounds by heart. The hardest part is getting close enough to the RED base to retrieve him and running off without getting caught. Through a stroke of luck, a fresh crop of BLU mercenaries have come out and begun their shift, providing the perfect distraction while the two sneak out back to corner and retrieve the raccoon. They stop short when spotting a Sentry propped right in front of the foxhole where the critter leapt into. Barely avoiding the gunfire, the Sniper whips out his rifle and shoots at the turret from afar, destroying it in three shots. They rush over to the hole and try to goad Blackstar out, using sweet talk and treats Jane had on him. Blackstar is a stubborn creature, but with enough bribing, he eventually gives in and pops out of the hole straight into the Soldier's arms. They make a mad dash for the barracks before the other RED mercs can find them.

Finally reunited with the rest of his family, Lt. Blackstar and his pack run around the barracks, digging through the trash cans and dumpsters like the adorable vermin they are. Watching their little antics sends a feeling of relief and joy to Mort.

“Thanks,” the Soldier says, his voice low, but lacking its usual harshness.

Mortimer is thrown off by this comment. “For what?”

The youngest raccoon runs up to Jane's leg, and he picks it up and turns to Mort. To the bushman's surprise, Jane appears to be smiling. “For everything.”

It is then that it finally hits Mort what he meant. “It was nothin', really! I... I'm sorry 'bout all the crap I said the other day.”

“Don't worry about that. I get it all the time.” Playing with the little kit in his arms, he continues. “I know I'm not a pleasant person to be around. I'm rude, I'm loud, I'm bossy. I know what I am. But sometimes I wonder if I'm just a nuisance to everybody. Vince isn't very good at his job, despite being around here longer, but everyone seems to like him better, even Duncan.” He puts down the raccoon and avoids Mort's gaze by pretending to observe the others playing. “Let's face it: everyone's better off without me.”

“That's not true! Sure, you might be a handful, but you're anything but useless. I was talkin' with Duncan that day. He may be busy an awful lot, but it's obvious from the way he spoke that he cares about you. Hell, he even put you before work—that's gotta count for something! An' when he handed you over to Hartmann, that's because he trusts him to protect you, not 'cause he's annoyed by you. I've seen what you can do in battle. You're strong an' bold an' just amazing! Not like me.”

Jane pauses before turning to face Mort. “Well, you are kind of a wimp, and pretty stupid, too. Not to mention lazy. But you always seem to know what to say, even if they're ridiculously sappy. And you're oblivious to the most obvious things, yet you somehow notice when somebody's feeling down or angry or disappointed. I don't understand how you—a rookie who hasn't even been here a week—could even tolerate me, let alone want to help me. Not to mention the way people and animals seem to act around you, like you're freakin' Snow White or something.” He crosses his arms. “I don't like to admit it, but despite your lack of skill in battle, you're the one that seems to be holding everybody together.”

For a long time, Mortimer does not speak a word. Then, he belts out a hearty laugh and pats Jane's helmet. “Aw, Janey, aren't you just the cutest thing?” As the laughter dies down, he places his hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, mate. That was totally cheesy, but I needed that.” Suddenly, he bends down and embraces the tiny Soldier, not letting go until Jane kicks him in the groin and leaves him in the dust.


	11. Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

“MORT!” Hartmann bangs his fist against the door. “You better get out of zhere, or else I'll do vorse zhan two more veeks of janitorial duties.”

Mortimer grumbles and rolls the blankets tighter around him. “Dun' wanna.”

The fat doctor growls under his breath and breaks the door down. “You're gonna get out of bed, and you're gonna get to vork!” He approaches the bottom bunk and rips the blanket from Mort's hands, causing him to roll out of the bed and onto the floor. While the Sniper lands face-down on the floor, Hartmann grabs him by the collar and lifts him to his feet. Then—strangely—his tone becomes far more affable, as he slaps Mort's back and pushes him towards the now-doorless exit. “Now, off you go!”

As he heads downstairs for the cafeteria, Mortimer stretches and cracks his aching back, the stubborn grogginess slowly fading away from his brain. By the time he gets his breakfast and finds an empty seat, he's feeling much more awake. A moment later, Vincent joins him. Compared to his own excessive meal, Vince's breakfast is modest, his plate adorned with bacon, buttered toast, and a small salad with a glass of orange juice. “I hope Hartmann wasn't too harsh on you, sir,” he says with a bashful smile.

Mort laughs nervously. “Actually, he broke our door down. But I think he's learning to control his strength, compared to his earlier attempts.” As he says this, memories of Hartmann's morning ritual flash through his mind, and he cringes as he could hear and feel every bone in his body breaking again.

“I see...” Vincent himself had similar experiences with the doctor, though they were less the fault of laziness and more an attempt to toughen him up. “Well, he always puts his heart into everything, so it might come across as a little over-the-top. He can be a bit harsh, but he's helped me out a lot in the long run.”

“I dunno how throwing me out of bed is gonna help me out.” He looks down at Vince's plate. “Your meals are always so tiny. Don't you get hungry while working? I mean, if I was runnin' an' jumpin' around all day, I'd be starvin' to death before the sun goes down!”

“Of course I do, sir. I take small meals throughout the day, and balance them out for maximum efficiency. You know what they say: a healthy body leads to a healthy mind.” Mortimer never so much as heard of that phrase before, but he finds it sensible enough, so he shrugs it off. “You seem to have a healthy appetite as usual, sir.”

Mort stammers and says, “Actually, I've been tryin' to eat less, to keep from gettin' sick during the mission. Why're you so stingy 'bout food, anyway? You always act pretty old for a kid. Is this Doc's doin'?”

“I've always been a bit mature for my age, but I suppose being raised by Hartmann affected me, as well. I also enrolled in a prestigious boarding school as a kid, so I've been trained to be efficient.”

“Boarding school? Isn't that for fancy rich kids or somethin'?”

“Well, yeah. But it's kind of a specialized school, so even if you're rich, you might not qualify. See, it's kind of a place for students that require, um, special accommodations. But it also helps them discover their talents and tailor their curricula to hone them—so they advertise. Being a New England school, they have high standards, so they still have a pretty heavy workload.”

“So you must be pretty smart.”

“Actually, I'm a pretty average student—don't get me started on art. But I did really well in physical education. I was on the track team in high school, and did a bit of weight lifting every now and then.”

Mort nods, noticing the Scout's muscular arms. “Well, when you're dealing with Doc everyday, you're gonna have to be strong.” He chuckles.

“He would want me to do my best—he paid for my tuition, after all!” He looks up at the clock hanging on the wall and panics. “Oh, my gosh! The next round's about to start. We've gotta go NOW!” He grabs Mort by the hand and runs out of the cafeteria, their meals left unfinished.

As they wait for the gates to open—a sign of the mission's start—Vincent does some quick stretches when Hartmann approaches him. “Guten Morgen, Vincent. It's strange zhat you'd arrive here zhis late. Has zhis dead veight been slowing you down?”

“Oh, not at all. I think he's gotten more punctual, thanks to you.”

“I see...” He highly doubts that Mort has improved much, if his attitude this morning was any indication. “So, are you prepared zhis morning? You've taken your pills, right? Have you been eating vell?” Vince answers yes to every last one of his questions. _He's_ _being_ _unusually_ _doting_ _today._ “Ah, thank goodness. Vell, I've got vork to do elsevhere, so I can't stay long. Good luck, Kaninchen.” He pats Vince in the back and walks out.

The gates fly open, and all the BLU mercenaries rush out the doors, guns and bomb launchers and melee weapons in hand. Despite being the fastest member of the bunch, Vince is the last to leave, taking an alternate route and carefully approaching the battlefield. Armed with his pistol, he aims and fires at the Heavy lumbering towards the bridge, dodging the rain of bullets that fly his way. With some assistance from a stray rocket or two, the large man is promptly executed, leaving his Medic ally open to fire. He switches to his scattergun and runs towards the bridge, joining Pasha, Duncan, and Jane in mowing down RED's defenses. He barely dodges the enemy Sniper's arrow as he tries to outrun the Sentry's missiles, and manages to gun down an incoming Soldier or two. But for the most part, he's spent a majority of his time avoiding danger whenever he can as he searches for the safest route to the intel room.

“BONK!”

The BLU Scout suddenly feels a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his head as he falls to the floor. As his assailant's shadow prepares to strike the final blow, he rolls over to the side, letting their weapon—a baseball bat decorated with the BONK! brand—crash into the ground beside him. Standing atop of him is a RED Scout that looks exactly like him, save for the droopy-eyed glare he's shooting. Valdo. “It's been a while, big brother. We should spar, like we used to when we were kids.” Vincent dodges another strike from the Scout's bat and gets up on his feet. “Things have gotten boring without you around. It's almost like you've been _avoiding_ me!” He slams the bat against the wall, creating a large dent. “Though I must admit, it's been fun toying with that baby birdy up in his nest. I just love screwing up his aim with my little antics.” A crooked grin distorts his face. “Come on, _Kaninchen_. Let's play!”

Seeing no other choice in the matter, Vincent swaps out his scattergun for his baseball bat, and successfully blocks Valdo's overhead swing. The two engage in a dance of bats, exchanging blows and parries, in a manner not unlike that of sword-fighting. Valdo is the more cerebral opponent, his speed matched only by his penchant for underhanded techniques, such as tripping up his twin to drop his guard. But in the end, by gaining the upper hand through a surprise blow to his opponent's ribs and finishing with a swift swing to the head, Vincent's sheer strength wins over his brother's dirty tricks. As a reward for his victory, the BLU Scout swipes the suitcase—which had fallen to the floor in the midst of his duel—and is about to run out of the base, when a sharp pain shoots him in the spine. As he blacks out, he can hear the Spy whisper, “My apologies,” as he dissolves into nothingness.

Thankfully, Valdo did not show his face in the next round, so Vincent did not have to worry about wasting his time fighting him. But as he and his gang headed for the intel room, he had the misfortune of running into the newly-respawned enemy Sniper, who—like Hartmann—was an especially aggressive sort for his class. After dealing in a hand-to-hand sparring match with him, he kneed him in the groin and finished him off with a gunshot blast to the head. _A_ _perfect_ _waste_ _of_ _time_ , the Scout thought as he reunited with his team for a well-deserved victory.

He went on for several more rounds before calling it a day, realizing he hardly ate anything in the last few hours. His head dizzy from hunger and pain, Vincent stumbles into the locker room and collapses.

_It was a peaceful weekend day in the neighborhood, and all the kids were running about outside. Vince and his seven brothers were playing a casual game of baseball on an empty lot surrounded by a busy street. “Casual” meaning there were hardly any rules or scores to be kept. To them, the fun was in hitting a ball as hard and far as possible and running around like an aimless loon. Though the rule-abiding eldest brother, Valter, found the game difficult to follow, he eventually shrugged it off as part of the whimsy of children and joined along. All was fine and dandy... until it happened._

_Vincent, playing in the outfield, watched as Valdo went up to bat, his face stoic while his brother, Vier, taunted him with immature (not to mention unoriginal) chants. As he stepped onto the plate, Valter stopped to give him suggestions on the proper stance—suggestions which Valdo took to heart, seeing as how, unlike most of his other friends and family, he was not as keen on the subject of baseball. Once in position, the young boy concentrated as Vier threw the ball._

_“Strike one,” Valter called out as he threw the ball back to the pitcher. Valdo swung again; another strike. But on the third attempt, he heard the crack of the bat, and all the kids stop to stare as the ball went flying, turning into a white speck as it disappeared over the wooden fence. Valdo's feet were stuck to the ground, unable to move as he watched, awestruck. Then Vince saw Valter mouth out the word, “Run!”, triggering the twins into running. Vince, unaware of his surroundings, chased after the ball, which bounced and rolled on the street._

_“LOOK OUT,” Valter shouted as he ran out of the lot, followed by his curious siblings. But Vincent, too slow to notice and react on time, had to be pushed aside. He didn't know what happened at the time, and it only took a second to realize the consequences. Lying in the middle of the street, stained in blood, was Valter. Unable to turn away, Vincent sat there, staring in shock as the image gradually ingrained itself into his psyche, where it continued to haunt him for days on end._

Vince gasps as his eyes burst open and shift back and forth. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lighting, but as they clear up, he can make out the faces of Mortimer and Hartmann, both of which are creased with worry. Hartmann sends graces to the heavens as he embraces the Scout. Meanwhile, Mort hands him a slice of carrot cake and some ginger ale “to ease your tummy”. As he accepts the food offering, Vince smiles and stutters a thank you. “But you really didn't have to do all this for me. I could've helped myself.”

“Not in your condition, you vouldn't have,” Hartmann says as he pinches and pulls one of Vince's ears. “Zhis is vhy you need me. You keep vorking so hard, vithout ever stopping to take a break. I thought you vould've learned by now, because you keep making zhe same mistake over and over!” He lets go of his ear and crosses his arms. “You say you vant to be independent, yet you lack zhe ability to take care of yourself. So as punishment, you are to stay vith me until you learn better.”

Mort chuckles nervously as he feels the tension rising between the two. “Doc, dontcha think you're overreacting a bit...?”

“Bullshit,” Vincent snaps. “I was doing just fine until today. If you'd just quit babying me, maybe I can make some actual progress!”

“I did not see any progress. Vhat I saw vas you regressing to your former self.”

“I worked for over half a workday before passing out. And I held up in a fight with Joey!”

“Vincent, a monkey can bring down Joey. Zhat's hardly vorth bragging about.” The Scout doesn't argue back—he knows the doctor was right about that one—and he seethes in silence as Hartmann slams a container of pills and a glass of water on the counter next to him. “Now, take your pills. You get any more tense, you'll risk a panic attack, or vorse.”

Vince sullenly obeys, then takes some bites from Mort's cake, slowly eating the stress away. Between bites, he mutters, “I would've won the first round for us, if Valdo didn't get in the way.”

Hartmann tenses up. “Valdo?”

He weakly nods. “I thought he was to be transferred elsewhere, but I guess they brought him back.”

“He was a mighty pain in the arse, he was,” Mort butts in, tired of being the third wheel. “Try as I might, I just can't get a good shot at 'im. It's almost as if he's fucking with me.”

“He's always like that, sir—especially with Snipers. Best not to let him get under your skin.” What he said is mostly true: though Valdo always had a habit of trolling Snipers with his superhuman agility, he seemed to have taken a liking to Mortimer in more ways than one, so Vincent believes.

“Still, if he's defending for Teufort...” The Medic's brows furrow as he scratches the back of his neck. “Zhis feels more like an omen of things to come.”

Mort frowns and raises a brow. “I know he's annoying, but he can't be that bad... is he?”

“Valdo thrives on making Vincent's life a living hell, and vill go through excessive lengths to do so. Zhis sort of sabotage—even if targeted towards a specific target—vill destroy our team as ve know it.” He glances at Vince. “And he's not zhe only one vith a bone to pick. In zhis line of vork, you're bound to make a nemesis out of somebody.”

The air between the three of them becomes grim and heavy, and the doctor tries to make quick work to eliminate it. “Since you're here, I might as vell put you to good use.” Whipping out a clipboard and pen, he scribbles something down, then hands the written form to Mort. “Zhis is an outline for zhe prescriptions I need. Head down to zhe pharmacy to pick zhem up, and bring zhem back to me immediately. Don't ask questions, just do it. Now, off you go!” He pushes the bushman out the door and slams it behind him. Turning back to Vincent, his expression becomes forlorn. “I'm sorry about earlier. You can keep living in the barracks, but under one condition: Mortimer vill be your bodyguard.”

Vincent almost chokes on his food at the mention of the Sniper. “You're kidding, right? I mean, Mr. Mundy's nice, but he isn't exactly bodyguard material.”

Hartmann laughs. “Of course I'm aware of zhat! But he's a good fellow, and zhe two of you seem to respect each other enough. Plus, he seems to have a bone to pick vith Valdo; zhat's a plus.”

“You make it sound as if you _want_ my brother dead.”

“Oh, I know for a fact he vouldn't do zhat—I'm certain he's incapable of hating anybody zhat much. I'm assigning him to you precisely because I know zhat.” He ruffles Vince's hair. “Doctor knows best!”

Hartmann excuses himself and makes a short trip to the restroom. All the while, Vincent is left to mull over the so-called “doctor's orders”. _I_ _know_ _Hart's_ _looking_ _out_ _for_ _me._ _But_ _why_ _drag_ _Mortimer_ _into_ _all_ _this?_ _And_ _all_ _this_ _because_ _of_ _Valdo._ _What's_ _going_ _on?_ _This_ _can't_ _be_ _right._

By the time Hartmann returns, the Scout is long gone.


	12. Rabbit Hearted

Mortimer enters the pharmacy and is greeted by a long line of people. A good lot of them are civilians, but there are also a handful of mercenaries scattered about, such as the RED in front of him. The RED, while not as massive as Hartmann or Pasha, is nothing to sneeze at, towering over him by half a head. Judging by the attire, Mort assumes he must be a Sniper, though he looks meatier than the lanky ones he usually encounters (though he can't really call himself slender, either). Under the stranger's Outback hat is long, golden hair, tied back in a ponytail, and—Mort recognizes the second he sees it—a tanned face half-covered in scars. His mouth opens into a wide smile as he blurts out, “Joey! Is that really you?”

The stranger turns around, revealing the full extent of his injuries, though his face still manages to look handsome—and equally happy to see Mortimer. “Morty? Good lord, it is you!” He picks up the BLU Sniper and hugs him tightly. “It's been ages since I've seen ya! How's life treatin' ya?”

“Great,” Mort says, struggling for air. “Can you put me down... please?”

“Oh.” Joey gently sets him back on his feet. “I see you got accepted into BLU. But what're you doin' here? Didn't you say you were gonna be a doctor or something?” He snaps his fingers. “You got hired as a Medic, didn't ya? I knew you could do it!”

“No, I'm not! Actually, I'm a Sniper.”

“A Sniper? But bein' an animal doctor was your dream job, wasn't it?”

“Don't get me wrong, it still is. It's just...” He trails off, crestfallen. “Well, shortly after you left, I flunked out of school.”

Joey gasps in shock. “Flunked out? Whaddaya mean, you flunked out? I tutored you the whole time we were buds, an' you're tellin' me that was for nothing? I oughta crush your stupid head 'cause you're so stupid...!” His hands, clasped against Mort's temples, were primed for doing just that, but he gives up and lets go with a sigh. “It's your old man, isn't it?”

Mort nods. “Sorta. But it's not like I was smart enough, anyway. If it weren't for you, I'd have never survived middle school.”

“Right you are about that. You were always a little wimp, lettin' everybloke push you around like some kind of... non-sentient mannequin-thingy!” Mortimer chuckles; Joey, normally eloquent, can never come up with the right words when his emotions take over. “But you seemed to have survived this long without me. What the hell happened when I was out?” Mort explains how he ran away and fended for himself, relying on odd jobs and the kindness of strangers, and Joey listens with an ounce of skepticism in his expression. “Is that so? Kid, you're such a goody-two shoes. No wonder you let people push you around. Still, that's pretty bold of you, running off without turning back. Perhaps you're stronger than I believed you to be.”

“Aw, I'll never be as strong as you! I just acted like I usually do. Sure, there were some strings attached, but kindness hardly comes without a price these days.”

Hearing Mort's story, the RED is immediately reminded of the tale of Cinderella. He never believed such stories could ever happen in real life, let alone so close to home, yet here is the living proof of such possibilities. “You're an idiot, Mort. But you're a lucky idiot. Lucky, goody-two shoes Mortimer.” It's painful to admit, but he cannot help but be envious of his old friend. Best to change the subject. “So, what're you here for?”

Mort's mind takes a moment to remember. “Oh! I'm just running an errand for the doc.” He removes the form, folded neatly in his pocket, and skims through it. “He asked me to get some prescriptions, but it's all gibberish to me.”

“Lemme see that.” Joey takes the form and reads it, murmuring to himself. “Anxiety, antidepressant, appetite stimulant... Wolfsbane?” He hands the paper back to Mort. “It's mostly painkillers and psychiatric meds. It's signed off, so just hand them that sheet, simple as that.”

“Ta, mate.” He pockets the form. “What about you? You on an errand, too?”

“Yeah, 'bout the same as you. Plus, I gotta get some ointment; my scar's actin' up again. An' maybe some painkillers an' bandaids. Those Scouts can pack a wallop, ReSyst or no!”

“Scouts? Ya mean Vince an' Valdo?”

“Yeah, those two. BLU kid put up a good fight, but Val gave me one for losin' to his bro.” He realizes the speed of which the line has shrunken. “An' the doc'll do the same if I don't get this in on time!”

Following after Joey, Mort frowns as he thinks about the implications behind his words. “Joey, are you sure you're alright?”

Joey hesitates. “I'll live. I'm used to it by now.” As the civilian in front of him takes their prescription and leaves, he steps forward and slips out a form to hand to the nurse at the counter. Staring at the RED Sniper's bare forearm, Mortimer notices a large bruise located in the same area where his humerus— _Is_ _that_ _what_ _they_ _call_ _it?_ —would be, along with some scratches and what appear to be bite marks. The wounds seem random at first, but the more he tries to imagine the scuffle that might have happened, the worse the outcome. By the time Joey retrieves his order and walks out of the pharmacy, Mort is left frozen in terror.

He was hardly back for more than a minute when Hartmann gave him the news. “He's _gone?_ ”

“Ja. I've searched all over zhe barracks und asked around, but nozhing.” The doctor swipes the prescription bag from Mort's hands and turns away. “Go gather your Spy friend und find him—now!” He points at the door—an unnecessary action, as the Sniper easily understood the message and was already gone by then.

Vincent had left the barracks overall and headed for the town. He knew perfectly well the consequences for disobeying Hartmann's orders, but he needed to get away for a bit, to walk around and think things over. Thanks to the anti-anxiety medication and the exercise, he's become more relaxed than he was earlier, and can think more clearly. Looking around his current environment—the lush greenery of the local park—he begins to wonder when was the last time he stopped to smell the roses (metaphorically and otherwise). Speaking of roses, he notices a familiar-looking red shirt and promptly averts from him. _Holy_ _crap,_ _it's_ _Joey_ _!_ _Maybe_ _if_ _he_ _doesn't_ _see_ _my_ _face,_ _he'll_ _ignore_ _me_ _and_ _go_ _about_ _his_ _business_ _of_ _not_ _beating_ _the_ _snot_ _out_ _of_ _me._

“Oi.” Body trembling and eyes wide like saucers, Vince turns his head to look up at the tall and intimidating Sniper approaching him. _Too_ _late._ “You're Mort's friend, aren't you?” Vince weakly nods. “I jus' wanna say congrats for putting up a good fight.” _Wait,_ _what?_ “I have to admit, I wasn't expecting much from what I've heard about you. But you really proved me wrong. And you don't seem like a bad kid. So I thought... Well, I guess what I mean to say is...” He holds out his hand. “Ya wanna hang out sometime?”

Vince can do nothing but stare at the Sniper's sheepish grin and accept his hand. “Um, okay, I guess. You did well, too, I guess. Are you a friend of Mr. Mundy's?”

“Yeah. Never expected to see him 'round these parts. Almost like Fate wanted us to meet again.”

“Wait. Did you see him recently?”

“Saw 'im at the pharmacy some time ago. Speaking of which, I really oughta head back.” He looks around, then says, “Um, you don't happen to know where the barracks are, do ya? I'm kind of new to these parts, an' my ride left without me.”

“Oh, sure. I can't lead you all the way back, obviously, but I can escort you to the forts, at least. It's pretty straightforward from there.”

During their trek back to Teufort, the two of them chatted about work, then moved on to more personal subjects once the topic got awkward. Vince started talking about his brothers, but turned silent when the mention of his twin's name caused the taller man to wince. “... Sorry.”

“Hn? What's there to apologize for? He's your brother. What goes on between him and me is our business. 'Sides, he's not as terrible as you think he is.”

“I know he isn't. But still, as the older brother, I feel like I should be responsible for his behavior.”

“Don't blame yourself. His behavior, his fault. You've got nothing to do with it.”

Vincent stops to look at the bruises on Joey's arm. “Where did you get those bruises?” Joey falls silent, the answer obvious from his averted gaze, and the Scout starts welling up in guilt and shame. “I'm sorry.”

“Quit that! You're even worse than Mort, ya know that?” Vince, startled by his outburst, shuts up immediately. Realizing just what's done, the Sniper tries to make up for it, however tenuously. “S-sorry. I didn't mean to...” He sees the bright red pagoda in the distance and points at it. “How 'bout we have tea? My treat.”

Once they settle down at Kanpai's, the two of them are greeted by Zhen Dou, who serves them their food. Considering he hardly ate the whole day, Vincent allows himself to indulge in slight excess, ordering an assorted bowl of rice, beef, and veggies. Meanwhile, Joey orders a hearty meal of marinated meats and saucy noodles. Though Zhen was preoccupied with serving other customers in the restaurant and bar, every once in a while, he would catch a glance in their direction and smile. When he finally returns to them, he happily hands Joey some coupons and contact information for the restaurant, whilst also sneaking in his personal phone number.

As they walk out of the restaurant, Vince jokingly comments, “It's only first day here, and you've already got a girl's number. You're quite the ladykiller, Joey!”

Joey says flatly, “Vince, that server was a boy. His posture seemed straighter and more masculine, as if he's trying to compensate for his small size. He also has a more prominent jawline, a huskier voice, and his shoulders are flatter and slightly broader. And his handshake feels awfully strong for a mere food server, though that's more a determinant of occupation than gender. Also, he smells funny.”

“Okay, now you're just pulling my leg.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by a voice calling Vince's name. Suddenly, the Scout is ambushed by a slender figure in a blue dress, causing him to instinctively throw them over the shoulder onto the ground. As he's holding down the figure—“Spy?”—he's approached by the name-caller, who is currently stuck in Joey's headlock. “Mr. Mundy?”

After letting their captives go, Mortimer explains that he and Spy had been searching all over the town for them, and Vincent, having explained his and Joey's side of the story, apologizes for causing them trouble. “Aw, it's no drama. Glad to see you're in safe hands.” He flashes a grin in Joey's direction. “Since we're all headin' for the same place, y'all can ride in my van.”

Joey smiles politely. “Thanks, but I think I can handle things from here. 'Sides, I can't risk letting our teams see us fraternizing with the enemy.” Then, as he spots a taxi pulling up to the side of the road, he shouts “See ya on the battlefield!” and runs towards it, leaving the trio of BLU mercs behind.

Save for the unusual spot in which it parked, the taxi appears—to the unobservant—to look and act like any other taxi would. However, as soon as Joey settles himself into the backseat, the driver sheds his uniform, revealing a man in a red suit and balaclava. He's not alone, either: sitting in the passenger seat, hidden from outsiders by a tinted window, is an elderly man in white. “Did you get it?” the elder asks, his calm voice tinged with an underlying impatience. Joey nods and holds out the prescription bag for him to take. As he inspects the contents, he sighs in satisfaction. “Ah, yes. Gut. Everyzhing is here.”

“You took your lovely time, though,” the red-suited man interjects, his accent adding a sense of deviousness to his tone. “Did somezhing happen between you and BLU?”

Reluctantly, Joey answers, “I met an old friend of mine, an' Valdo's brother.”

“And by 'old friend', do you mean Monsieur Mundy?” Like a magician, he slips a pair of photos from his sleeve and displays them to the RED Sniper. “I would suggest picking your friends more wisely, Mr. Buckman.”

Contrary to the driver's skepticism, the elder sounds oddly curious. “'Mundy', you say? As in _Mortimer_ Mundy?” Joey can only nod in silence, his gesture picked up through the rearview mirror. “Vell, zhis is certainly an interesting turn of events. Amusing, even. In fact, I zhink I can make zhis vork to our advantage.” The elder flashes a grin at the mirror, and the Sniper, staring at the reflection, shudders in fear.


	13. Ceasefire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prelude to 2-part "filler" arc (quoted because it actually DOES connect to the main story in the end).

For several weeks, they fought, RED and BLU, and their victories were scattered, adding up to a perpetual stalemate. After many achieving many wins and many more losses, the Administrator had announced an order for a ceasefire. The rookies, not expecting a break from action so soon, were confused and relieved. As Duncan explains, whenever circumstances arose—such as signs of stalemate or a drop in resources, or an emergency situation—both teams would receive a ceasefire order, thus halting all mercenary activity until the issue is resolved or whenever the boss calls for it. "Until that happens, ye'd best enjoy the downtime you got."

Ecstatic, Mortimer, Alan, and Vincent chat all morning about the things they can do during their time off. Alan suggests going clothes shopping, having noticed Mort's lack of variety in his wardrobe. Meanwhile, Mort rambles on about the new fair that just opened up and how he's been dying to go visit it. When it's Vince's turn, he agrees with both their plans, while adding, "Hartmann's been nagging at me to get a new swimsuit lately, though he hasn't explained why. And I think I'm gonna need new clothes at this rate." He tugs at the collar of his shirt, an artifact from a time when he was a few years younger and not nearly as broad-shouldered.

After breakfast, the three of them set off for the clothing store in search of swimsuits. Alan dons a girlish, vintage style body suit that ties into a ribbon in the back of his neck, while Mortimer rushes to try on a speedo that accentuates his better assets. But Vince finds himself in a bit of a bind, as most of the store's offerings conflict with his own conservative tastes. As mens' body suits gradually fall out of style in favor of swim trunks and speedos, he cannot fathom the idea of baring himself for the world to see.

"Just get some trousers an' put a shirt over the rest of ya," Mort suggests bluntly.

"Well, I suppose that's true." Vince sorts through a selection of shorts and tops that he picked out just moments ago.

Alan picks up a pair of shorts and gasps at the tag on the interior belt. "I expected it to be smaller, but you and Mort are zhe same size!"

Flustered, Vince snatches the shorts from the Spy. "I might've gotten a bit bigger around the waistline the past few months. But it's mostly muscle, so it's no big deal."

"Waitaminute, really?" Mort pops in, swiping the same pair of trousers Vince was holding. "I need proof of this!" He runs into the fitting room and slams the door shut. After a couple of minutes of grunting and pulling, he cracks open the door and pops out, revealing the shorts stuck halfway up his thigh. He whimpers, "I think I'm the one that got bigger."

As Mort slips back into his own pants, Vincent points out, "You know, for someone who's not much of a runner, you've got pretty strong-looking thighs. Do you work out or something?"

Opening the door, he says, "Oh, naw! I jus' got girly hips, is all. Kids used t' make fun of me for 'em, an' they caused me all kindsa trouble, but I've learned to deal with it since. I'm surprised ya never noticed earlier."

"I-I have, actually. But I never thought to bring it up, because I thought it'd be rude if I did. Er, sorry, sir."

"Aw, it's no drama." Mort leaves the fitting room and starts sifting through the selection of trousers. "That's what we're here for." He finds a pair of shorts that resemble the ones he was trying out earlier, only a light shade of tan and a couple of sizes wider. Laying them in front of his crotch and thighs, he smiles in satisfaction. "These oughta do it." He throws them in a pile with his speedo and a few shirts that caught his eye early on.

Finishing up for the day, the trio heads over to the register. First is Mortimer, whose outfits are light in color and fabric, and more fit for warm weather, though rather tacky. Next is Vincent, whose clothing is also practical, but a bit more tasteful. Finally, the cashier rings up some rather fancy and feminine garments, leading them to refer to Alan as "ma'am". After leaving the store, they head to the diner to have lunch and chat with Duncan.

With the ceasefire in place, the Demoman has more time to dedicate to himself. "But Janey's been kind of antsy since the announcement. He can't stand a moment when he's not blowin' up stuff."

"Sounds like he's got a lot of pent-up energy to release," Vince says with a nervous chuckle.

Mort gulps his food down. "But what about that family of raccoons he got out back?"

"They can take care o' themselves, fer the most part. The lad needs more  _human_  friends, anyway."

For the first time in the conversation, Alan speaks. "What about Aiden? I've seen Jane talking to them some occasions. Maybe zhey're secret partners in crime, or lovers!"

Duncan's elvin ears perk up, dumbfounded. "Bullshit! I never heard or seen anything about this. Tell me more."

"Well, from what I've noticed, a lot of zhe conversations are initiated by Aiden, yet Jane never lashes out at zhem. In fact, he seems a lot calmer around Aiden, sometimes even smiling. Which can only mean zhey are lover—"

The Scotsman covers the Spy's mouth with one hand, while stroking his beard with the other. "So the little Pyro's what makes 'im jolly, eh?" He uncovers Alan's mouth and slaps him in the back instead. "Thanks fer the intel, lass!"

While the so-called "lass" wallows in his praise, Vince strikes up an idea. "If you want them to bond, why not take Aiden to one of your monthly camping trips? I'm sure he'll lighten things up, so to say."

"Nah, too much trouble. 'Sides, that's the only time Janey an' I have any time alone."

Alan sports a cat-like grin. " _Alone?_  Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice, Mr. McCullen—"

"It's not like that." Duncan sighs and turns to Mort. "How 'bout you? Any bright ideas?"

Mort scratches his scruffy sideburns. "Well, it's not really much, but there's always the fair..."

"You're just saying zhat because you want to go zhere," Alan butts in.

"Mann's Fair, eh? That has got to be..." Duncan's lips curl up into a grin. "The most brilliant idea you've ever had! You're a genius, Mort!"

"He is?"

"I am?" Mort almost chokes on his food. "No, no. Alan's right: I was bein' rather selfish when I said that. I thought maybe we could all go, an' leave Janey an' Aiden to their own business while we go have fun elsewhere."

Duncan says flatly, "Lad, you seriously don't realize the amount of genius yer spewin', are ya?"

"Trust me; I'm no genius." Mort isn't certain what he had done, but he feels as if he had just unleashed a monster.

At the base, Hartmann announces a group meeting in the lounge room. The lounge is crowded, with Mort surrounded by his fellow teammates, along with a few strangers who might as well be nameless, on account of how generic they look. At the center is the host of the meeting himself, who claps loudly and sternly orders silence in the room. "Now, zhen. As you all know, zhis veekend marks zhe Fourth of July, so our superiors have ordered a ceasefire. Zhat means a three-day vacation for all of us!" Everyone cheers. "But because I don't have any confidence zhat you vill be able to do anyzhing productive at all during your break, I have decided to schedule a little field trip for all of us." Some of the mercs groan at the thought of being treated like schoolchildren, but they are immediately silenced by a few shots from the doctor's syringe gun. "Tomorrow, ve are all going to zhe beach! Now, isn't zhat exciting? If any of you have any problems vith zhis, you'll have to take it up to me."

The reception to the news has taken a turn towards the positive, with only a few mercs showing signs of concern or contempt. Among the concerned is Aiden, who quivers upon hearing the word "beach". Being obligated to reveal themselves to the world and step into a large body of water filled with God knows what kinds of weird, potentially dangerous creatures and foreign objects that could be hidden beneath that shimmery, salty surface? No, thank you!

Thankfully, Miller is by Aiden's side. He's the only one who understands them, the only one who knows about the Pyro inside and out. He approaches the fat doctor and raises a hand. "Hey, Doc. Ya got a second? We need to talk." The Engineer takes Hartmann off to a spot far out of Aiden's hearing range, and they have a conversation, which, from the Pyro's perspective, seems to have suddenly taken a grim direction. Once they finish speaking, Miller returns, a crooked smirk on his face. "Good news, little buddy: you're good to go."

Relieved to hear this, Aiden starts slipping through the crowd, hoping to escape into solitude, but is stopped by an imposing, dark-skinned man. The dark man hands her a pass to the fair. "Mort gave me an' Janey tickets to go to the fair tomorrow, but I'm goin' with Hart an' the others. So I figured, since ya don't got anywhere to go tomorrow, you can join along with 'im. Janey don't like the beach much, anyway. Whaddaya say?"

Aiden is reluctant to take the ticket. On the one hand, they can hang out with Jane for an entire day, but on the other, they may not be able to enjoy it alone, just the two of them. Still, the opportunity is too good to miss. Their fingers grab hold of the ticket, and they nod. "Thank you," Aiden's voice, husky yet girlish, says, the message distorted through the filter on the gas mask.


	14. Fun Time at the Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part A of the Ceasefire story arc.

The next morning, Aiden wakes up to the sound of the egg-shaped alarm clock—a cute little device Miller built purely for their pleasure—and is dismayed when they find the bottom bunk to be empty. As they inspect the dorm halls, jiggling doorknobs and listening closely to signs of the usual hustle and bustle, they come to the conclusion that everyone had already left. Glumly, the Pyro heads downstairs, where a whiff of smoked beef and baked bread tickles their nose. Following the scent, they end up in the lounge room, where a vast array of breakfast foodstuffs awaits them. Most of the food is set on the countertop, beside the coffee machine, but baskets of biscuits and fruit center the long table, taken out during formal meetings and set aside for more casual get-togethers.

Sitting on the far end of the table is Jane Doe, munching on a plate of sausages and soggy pancakes. Watching him stab his breakfast with such unabashed enthusiasm, one could easily mistaken him for a child playing with his food. Spotting the Pyro, Jane urges them to sit with him. Aiden timidly complies, and they share a moment of awkward silence before saying anything. "So... You have any idea what's at the fair?" Aiden lets out a muffled "huh?", and Jane shakes his head. "On second thought, don't say anything. I'd rather find out myself." Pause. "Duncan's a good cook, isn't he? He and the other cooks made all this, just the four of them. I bet you'd do well, too. Though I'm not sure if flambés count as cooking." He and Aiden laugh. "I don't think the fair's gonna open for another hour or two, so we've got a lot of time to kill. And since hardly anybody's here, aside from the staff, we've basically got the place to ourselves!"

The Soldier elaborates on his harebrained scheme as he fiddles with the food on his plate. According to his plan, the two of them are to raid the storage areas for equipment, and then sneak into the RED barracks, where they'll sabotage their main water supply and flood the building, forcing them out while they take anything that looks remotely important. While Aiden is curious about what secrets the enemy team might be hiding, they are not certain if resorting to (potentially fatal) high-school level pranks is such a good idea.

In the end, however, they could not access any of the storage areas, due to them being locked down for security reasons. "This is stupid! There's nothing fun to do at all!" Jane sulks as he storms ahead of Aiden, who's distracted by the flowers growing by the park gate. "Well, I guess we can hang around and stuff. But just until the fair opens." Entering the local park, he feels like a fish out of water. Though Jane has gone on many trips with Duncan to the forests at Thunder Mountain, he rarely has ever felt at peace. Being in a place where such peace is an obligation does not relax him any.

Aiden, on the other hand, is a sight to behold. With a bit of urging, he managed to get Aiden to slip out of that fire-resistant shell and put on something nice for once. A full-figured young lady with shoulder-length crimson hair, she looks even younger in the blue-and-red sailor uniform Miller bought for her. Though she tried to put on makeup to cover up the burn scars that mar half of her face, she still opted to brush it over with her bangs, giving her a gloomy appearance. The surgical mask is more for her health than vanity; she finds it hard to breathe otherwise. Though Jane had his suspicions, he never expected her to look so... cute.

"Look, Janey!" Flower in hand, she hurries over to Jane. "Isn't it beautiful?" She thrusts out the flower, and he recoils at the sight of a slimy, wriggling snail hanging on the leaf. The redhead plucks the snail from the leaf and tosses the flower aside. "I think I'll name him Jerry. What do you think, Janey?"

The Soldier winces and trembles even more as she thrusts "Jerry" inches away from his face. "I think you should keep Jerry away from me!"

"Oh. Sorry." She gently puts Jerry down on the ground and watches him crawl away.

As the guilt starts building up inside him, he looks at his nonexistent watch and says, "I think the fair's about to open. We should start heading over. Maybe you can win a goldfish, or even a real life unicorn!"

Her eyes lighten up at the mention of mythical equines. "Really? What're we doing, standing around here? Let's go!" She grabs the sleeve of Jane's blouse and starts running.

Moments later, they reach the entrance gate of the Saxton Fair. Staring at the sea of people causes Aiden to freeze up, but when Jane holds her hand and smiles, all her fears melt away. After showing their passes and receiving their tickets, they make a head start for the attractions. Jane quickly finds his niche in playing the largely reflex- and strength-based games, as he shoots, throws, and whacks his way to victory. While not as strong as her partner, Aiden is no pushover, as her sharp eyes and impeccable sense of timing have given her an advantage at the shooting gallery and even won her a goldfish.

But what really catches her eye is a giant, pink, stuffed unicorn, resting on a stool next to a peculiar-looking man in a turban and robes. "Come, young lass and lad. If the plush mythical equine is what you seek, then that you shall get... if you can pass my test."

Jane steps forward. "Name your test."

"Your name is James Dorian Sullivan, yes?"

For a split second, he falters. "Yes, I think."

"You think? Does that mean you do not know?"

"Yes—I mean, no! M-maybe."

"You boast with confidence, yet you lack it yourself. If you remain clouded by this uncertainty, you will fall." He gestures to the Pyro. "Next." Aiden reluctantly approaches the man. "Ah. Miss Aiden Flynn! Good to see you're in good health. Now, then... Are you scared of anything?"

"I-I... Water. I'm afraid of water."

"It is not water itself you are afraid of. Rather, it is the memories that water forces you to reflect on. From its clear surface, you see the scars of your past, and from the skies, you feel the tears of pain you shed. Do not fear the water. Drink! Swim! Cleanse your mind until it becomes clear and pure!"

Aiden's nerves become more and more frazzled by the man's words, which were unusually accurate for someone whom had only been given a brief hint of her true feelings. Still, despite the eeriness of his cryptic statement, his advice is clear and sound. "Thank you. I will."

A smile creeps up on the man's face. "You passed the test! Here's your prize: a life-size Balloonicorn!" He hands her the plush unicorn, and the two exchange goodbyes and part ways.

"What was that guy all about," Jane asks, still miffed at what the strange man said to him. "He thinks he knows everything. I say he's a load of—"

"Janey, do you think you can give me some water? I'm getting thirsty." Jane cocks his head in confusion, but complies, returning with cotton candy and a bottle of water. "Thanks." She lowers her mask, takes a sip, and smiles. "It's hardly anything, yet I feel like I accomplished something."

"What, drinking water?"

Realizing how silly that sounded, she mutters, "N-never mind. Let's go home." She points at the goldfish in Janey's hand. "Navy Captain Goldfinnigan needs a better home than this plastic bag!"

Jane blinks. "Navy Captain...?" His mouth stretches to a cocky smirk as he holds up the fish bag. "You mean Navy  _Commander_  Goldfinnigan, Terror of the Seas!" The two of them laugh as they start moving towards the front gate.

As the sky burn with the colors of fire, they arrive at the barracks, where they drop their new fishy friend into a round, glass bowl they found in the kitchen. After bickering over where to put him, they come to a compromise and leave him in the center of the lounge table, where everyone can admire his sparkling orange scales. (Fish are known for being attractive and relaxing to stare at, especially in places that are dull in the first place.) A little bit later, they climb to the roofs of the BLU fortress and sit together, watching the sun set.

"You know, I really had a lot of fun today," Jane says. "I never expected to enjoy anything that didn't involve lots of explosions."

"There were guns, though," Aiden points out.

"Water guns don't count."

"They do to me!"

"Right, 'cause you're a Pyro. I almost forgot." He chuckles.

Aiden giggles, then frowns and turns her gaze towards the crimson sky. "Janey, do you remember anything about your past?"

Jane glances at the Pyro's half-covered face and shakes his head. "Nada. For some reason, everything before my thirteenth birthday was all a blur. The only thing from it that I remember..." His hand slips over Aiden's, and he clenches it tightly. "... is you."

"That's what I thought." She turns to face him and smiles. "I can't make you remember everything, but I can always try. We'll wish for it together."

"But my birthday's already passed. It's not like we can blow out more birthday candles for the heck of it."

"Then why not wish on that star?" She points at the setting sun.

He hesitates, and then grabs both her hands, clasping them between his own. "Alright. Let's do this." They lean towards each other, their foreheads touching, and they silently spell out their mutual wish as day turns to night.


	15. Beautiful Day at the Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part B of the Ceasefire story arc.

"Here we are—BLU Ocean Beach!" Hartmann parks his car and starts removing the bags and beach chairs from the trunk. Vincent, carrying the cooler and umbrella, almost drops them upon seeing the great expanse of water before him. Beauty aside, there's also the numerous possibilities of danger lurking beneath, from seaweed that could tangle and bind to a swimmer's leg, to rocks and coral that scratch, to great whites and killer whales and anglers and Leviathans and...

"Vincent?  _Vincent!_ "

The Scout is abruptly slapped out of his daze, his back stinging from the pain. "You vere spacing out again. Take a deep breath and relax." Setting up the towels and beach chairs, Hartmann continues. "You don't have to swim if you don't vant to. Zhere's more zhan one vay to enjoy a vacation." He helps Vince set up the umbrella, then kicks back on a chair and starts rubbing sunscreen on himself.

"Are you going in the water," Vince asks as he plops the cooler between the two chairs.

The Medic belts a hearty laugh. "Oh, of course not! I am perfectly intent vith doing absolutely nothing today. Here."

He takes the bottle of sun lotion from Hartmann and applies it all over his body. "So it's just a lazy day for you, isn't it? Don't you get bored of doing nothing?"

"Kaninchen, I know you do not understand zhe meaning of such concepts as 'fun' and 'relaxation', but all I am asking is for you to start enjoying yourself. Don't think about vork or your brother, or zhe Kraken vhich may or may not be in zhose vaters. Just concentrate on being happy!" With that, he whips out a book from his bag and starts reading from it. Figuring he would ignore any protests he makes, Vince gets up and walks over to the shore.

Picking up a scallop with a shiny, pink interior, Alan gazes at it longingly before bagging it. As he catches a glimpse of Vince from the corner of his eye, he turns to wave at him. "Oh, bonjour, Vinci!"

"Hey. Um... The swimming cap and goggles I can understand, but... I still can't believe you're wearing that," Vince says while pointing out the girly, ribbon-adorned one-piece Alan is wearing.

"Well, it's my swimsuit, so zhere!" He sticks his tongue out. "You want to pick seashells with me? It's fun!"

The Scout stammers. "Uh, maybe a bit later. Have you seen Mr. Mundy?"

The Spy jabs his finger in the direction behind him. "He's right over there, making sand angels. Maybe you can join him; he looks like an idiot, doing that by himself."

Seeing no other choice in the matter, Vincent walks over to where Mortimer is, and receives a sudden kick of sand in the face. As he rubs the grains from his eyes, he coughs, "Hey! What'd you do that for?"

Mort stops flailing about and sits up. "Sorry 'bout that, Vinci. Didn't notice you there." His dopey grin shines brightly. "Hey, lie down with me! We can make sand angels together."

"I, um, all right. If you say so." He does as the Sniper suggests and lays his back against the hot sand, staring at the blue sky above. "So, um... You seem to be having fun."

"'Course I am—it's the beach! There's lots of beaches back where I came from, but I rarely get the chance to go to one. My mum an' dad are the 'stay-at-home' sort." He mutters with contempt, "'Specially dad."

"You don't seem to get along with your dad very well."

"I don't. But that doesn't matter. I never cared much for the beach, anyway. I'm having fun just bein' here with everybody."

"Even doing nothing in particular?"

"Bein' able to do nothin's the greatest blessing a man can have in his life. You'll understand when you get older."

"I'm twenty-five."

"Still a kid."

"You're hardly that much older!"

"Just five years more experienced."

Vince crosses his arms. "Well, you still act like a kid."

"I'm a kid at heart. What can I say?" He rolls on his stomach and closes his eyes. "As a kid, I wanted nothin' more than to grow up. Now that I am, I want nothin' more than to be a kid again. Weird how life works."

"I guess..." By then, his eyes are closed, and he can feel his mind drifting. Though he cannot see them, he can recognize the waves crashing against the shore, the muffled voices of his teammates as they dawdle and play, the cries of the gulls, the shuffling footsteps of a stranger approaching...

Suddenly, his nerves feel the sting of hot sand splashed across his skin, and his body recoils. As Vince frantically brushes the sand off him, a shadow looms over him and Mort. "Having fun, big brother?"

He hardly needs more than a glance to know who it is. "I was 'til you came, Baldo."

The intruder, Valdo, growls and kicks a large wave of sand in, which the two BLUs manage to shield their faces in time. "I thought I told you not to call me that!" He jabs a finger in Mortimer's direction. "You, me, beach volleyball. Winning team claims right to this territory."

Mort simply laughs. "Oh? An' where's your team? We outnumber you seven to one."

Valdo sneers and points a thumb over his shoulder. "Perhaps you should talk to your leader; he's havin' a spat with Dante as we speak."

Shocked by the news, Vincent makes a mad dash towards where he last saw Hartmann, and finds a crowd of mercenaries, BLU and RED alike. A line had been drawn in the sand, and standing at the forefront of each side is their respective teams' Medics: Hartmann and Dante. With a stocky build, long, snow white hair tied back, and gentle features, Dante is aged like a fine wine; some of the mercs back in Teufort have joked that he could pass off as Mort's father if he wanted. The Scout cautiously approaches the two, hiding behind his allies as the argument ensues.

"What do you mean, your beach? Zhis is 'BLU Ocean'—it clearly belongs to us!"

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Dante calmly tells him, "I am afraid you are mistaken. Zhis beach is known as 'RED Sunset', named after zhe beautiful crimson sun. Unless you are villing to challenge us, I am afraid you must leave."

"You're on!"

"Eager as alvays." The ivory-haired doctor smiles. "Unfortunately, it appears zhat zhere is a slight imbalance in our numbers. On your side, you have seven, vhile I only brought myself und four others. You know vhat zhat means, don't you?"

Hartmann's features distort in rage, and he calls his team to huddle together. "Alright, guys, ve have to vin zhis! Which one of you sucks at sports?"

Spy raises his hand. "I faint easily. Does zhat count?"

"Vhat about you, Miller? No doubt you've got a thing or two up your sleeve."

"Ya know I always do."

"Mort, you know anyzhing about volleyball?"

"Not at all! Is it fun?"

"I suppose so." Hartmann ponders over the idea, but shakes his head. Even with this clear disadvantage, it's better to have Mort on his side, to encourage his rivalry with Valdo. Plus, he can always cover for him. "I suppose zhe Spy vill do for now. Break!" He claps his hands, breaking formation, and they return to the starting point just as the RED team finishes their meet-up. "Ve vill hand over one of our members, as part of our deal," he announces as he places a hand on Spy's shoulder.

Dante appears unfazed. "Actually, ve have been conversing, und ve believe ve should make zhe decision. Und ve have decided to take your Sniper." He walks up to Mortimer and holds out his hand. "Before ve begin, I vould like to introduce myself. I am Dante Alterheim. Herr Buckman has told me much about you." His eyes catch a glance at Joey, who immediately averts his gaze. "I hope you can tolerate zhe predicament you're in."

Mort is confused at first, but becomes comforted by the mention of his old pal. "Hey, any friend of Joey's is a friend of mine." He clasps the doctor's hand and shakes it. "Mortimer Mundy, reporting for duty!"

It all goes downhill from there. Thrown off by the sudden change of events, the BLU team find themselves in a bind. Mortimer has proven to be a surprisingly skilled player, with his boundless energy, powerful legs, and precise aim compensating for his lack of knowledge about the game's rules. In addition, the RED team is supplied with competent athletes, including their newest recruit, a hot-blooded Soldier with a penchant for high-flying stunts. To make matters worse, Spy passes out in the middle of the match, forcing Hartmann to step out to assist him, and thus leading to another re-balancing of the teams. In a last-minute attempt to turn things around, Pasha has forms a strategy in his head, and promptly recruits Joey to put it to action. His plan works more smoothly than expected, as Joey's aggressive spikes, combined with Mort and Zhen's conflicting personalities arising from their mutual friend being on the other side of the net, helps lead the BLU team to a narrow victory.

After the match's end, Joey and Mort shake hands and return to their respective cliques, only to reunite come sunset. The two Medics have negotiated, and came to the conclusion that the beach—secluded to all except those working for Team Fortress Industries—should be regarded as neutral territory and thus remain nameless. After sealing the deal, they have invited their allies over to a local barbecue joint for a surprise celebration. The atmosphere starts off rather tense, but lightens up over time, as conversations become more and more lively.

"An' then the farmer says, 'That's no Marimo—that's my wife'!" Mortimer bursts out laughing at his own joke, which flew over the heads of everybody at the table who isn't Australian, Mort in particular. As he calms down, he wipes a tear from his eye and changes the subject. "Jokes aside, I'm still surprised you got recruited so soon. I thought you still had a few weeks to go."

Speaking with his mouth full, Zhen answers, "I do. This is part of my training; think of it as an apprenticeship, if you will." He swallows and continues while he shovels more food into his mouth. "In the weeks up to my graduation, I have to find a mentor from somebody working at Team Fortress Industries—better than letting SOLDR choose for me—and they help me break into the mercenary routine. When I first met Joey at the restaurant, I knew right away he was the one for me."

Vincent, who's picking away at his steamed veggies, chuckles weakly. "That explains everything. I thought you were hitting on him, when you gave him your number."

Joey almost chokes on his food, while Zhen looks away, embarrassed. "Our relationship is strictly professional—really. More accurate, it's like babysitting than tutoring." The Soldier pouts and glares at his Sniper partner, who smiles sheepishly. "Then again, wasn't it the same with you, Morty?"

"Yeah, but it was fun, bein' with you. It's like havin' a brother I never had."

"It's true that there's something 'big-brotherly' about you," Vince interjects.

Joey, absent-minded, picks at his steak. "Well, I got two li'l brothers back at home, so it ain't too far from the truth. You're pretty 'big-brotherly' yourself, the way Valdo talks about you."

"What? Me? Actually, we're both the youngest in our family. I'm just the older twin."

"Really? You're awfully mature for a kid brother. Then again, you probably have to, to live with a kid like that."

Vince puts down his fork and stares gloomily at his half-finished plate. "Yeah. After what happened with our older brother, I've had to fill in for him. For Val's sake."

Mort's eyes widen. "'Older brother'? How many brothers do ya have, anyway?"

"Eight. Well, seven. Now, quit asking questions. I've got to go to the bathroom." He stands up and leaves the others to their business.

While Zhen occupies himself with chowing down on his large meal, Joey says sternly, "You shouldn't have brought it up, Mort. That's your problem: you're too nosy for your own good."

"But he's never told me about any of this! I could help him—"

"Help him how? Give him a hug an' a sappy, rousing speech, an' expect everything to be sunshine and rainbows? Here's the news, in case you didn't get it:  _Life doesn't work that way!_  The kid is obviously suffering; meddling into his business will only mess things up worse."

"But I—"

"Don't give me those puppy-dog eyes, Mort! You should be grateful you never lost anyone." Mort opens his mouth to say something, but Joey interrupts with, "Animals don't count." He sighs and covers his face with the palm of his hand, his index finger and thumb rubbing against his temples. "You're a damned idiot. You're an idiot and a child. I can't believe I was ever friends with you." He slides his plate in Zhen's direction. "Take it. I lost my appetite." He gets up and exits the restaurant, not once looking back, even as he hears Mort slowly breaking down.


	16. A Little Heart to Heart

The weekend had come and gone, and now the mercenaries of BLU are ordered to return to work immediately. Some begrudgingly trudge over to the battlefield, while others have never been happier to be back after so long. But well into the afternoon, one worker had not even bothered to leave his room.

“Docteur, he has not budged one bit since zhe beach party,” Alan cries as he grabs hold of Hartmann's sleeve. “He won't talk to me, and when he does, he starts acting all grumpy. Even worse, he has not eaten anyzhing I've given him. He's possessed, I tell you— _possessed!_ ”

Hartmann raises a brow. “Zhat is veird. I doubt he's possessed, though. Did somezhing happen?”

“Happen when?”

He groans and slaps his palm against his forehead. “Zhe beach party!”

“Oh... I dunno. I was with Pasha and Luca zhe whole time. Well, and you, if you count zhat time when I fainted.”

His brows furrow at the mention of the BLU Heavy and the RED Spy.  _He has a terrible taste in friends._  “I see. Well, keep up the good work, Spion.” He pats the Spy on the head and enters the dorm.

Curled up tightly in his blankets is Mortimer. The Sniper doesn't react to the door opening, nor to the heavy footsteps approaching his bed or the equally heavy load sitting at the edge of the mattress. “Guten tag, Morty. I've heard you aren't feeling vell. Do you need a checkup?” A hand pulls the blankets from Mort's grasp, stripping him of his shell. He flails about, attempting to regain his grip, but gives up and curls up in a fetal position. “Now, zhen,” the Medic says as he tucks the sheets in a lump beside him, “Vhat's happening?”

Mort mutters, “Nothing.”

“You von't talk to Alan.”

“I was getting sick of 'im, anyway.”

“You von't eat anything.”

“Haven't been hungry.”

“For an entire veekend?”

Pause. “Doc... Do you hate me?”

Hartmann's hands twitch nervously. “Vell, you can be a bother at times. You're not zhe brightest, und you can act like a Kindermann. But you're a good man, Morty. You are...” He stops to gather some words that don't sound too cliché. “Vell, you know how to stop a fight before it happens. Remember zhe first time ve met? I vas on zhe verge of punching Jane's lights out, and somehow, I didn't. It vas because of you. I don't know how you did it, but I think that's your greatest strength.” He pulls Mort closer and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “You're like a puppy: you're simply impossible to hate!”

Hearing this, Mort can't help but smile. The comment reminds him of what Miller said, and it warms his heart. But then he remembers the last thing Joey said to him, and his shoulders slump. “Not really.”

Frowning, the doctor moves his hand to brush the bushman's messy brown hair. “Nein? Says who?”

“Says Joey.”

“Joey? You mean zhat pitiful excuse of a Sniper? Aw, forget him! He's not...” Hartmann stops to look down at Mort, whose lips quiver and whimper, and he bites his tongue, letting him sob in peace.

Once all the tears have fallen, Mort wipes his eyes and sniffs. “We were the best of friends, me an' Joey. I never was good in school, an' middle school was utter hell. I was always bullied by the other kids fer bein' girly an' stupid, but then Joey came in an' saved the day. That first moment when we met, I thought he was a superhero or my guardian angel. In the end, he turned out to be a big crook.”

“A crook?”

“When he left, he took my heart with him. And then, years later, he absolutely shattered it, leaving me with nothing but pieces.”

“I see...” His eyes widen as he realizes, “Vaitaminute, Joey's a guy!”

Mort, with curious eyes, stares up at the Medic. “I know it's really weird, but is it really so wrong?” His fingers clench at the fabric on his blouse. “I was in love with Joey. I never told anyone, though, so I kept it to myself. Even when he left, I didn't feel too sad about it, 'cause I knew I would see him again someday. So when he told me he couldn't believe he was ever friends with me, my heart...” He averts his gaze.

Hartmann does the same, burdened by the weighty atmosphere. Finally, he places a hand on Mort's shoulder. “It might not make you feel any better, but if you go on zhe battlefield, zhere's a chance you'll find him zhere. And vhen you do, you can go punch his lights out. Let him know how you feel!”

The Sniper's lips curl up into a tiny smile. “Really?”

“Ja, really.” He slaps his back—gently so—and helps him up. “Vell, vhat are ve vaiting for? Ve've got a cart to push!”

Mort's face falls. “You don't mean...?”

“I LOVE Payload missions!” Joey has settled down on a raised platform atop of the mine, through which a slim rail track runs along the rocky terrain and up the rickety wooden slopes, leading to a series of rustic RED buildings. Looking around, he can see his other teammates scattered about, preparing to ambush the unsuspecting BLU mercenaries. According to the information gained in their last victory, the enemy will be pushing a bomb-armed cart on a linear path—marked by control points—up the incline and towards the buildings, where it's set to detonate, causing significant damage to company property, as well as the potential loss of important resources. At this point in time, they will have already progressed past the first checkpoint and are heading towards the second.

Joey raises his bow and pulls back the arrow, its tip pointed squarely at the cluster of BLU shirts gathered behind the glowing cart. But as soon as he catches sight of a familiar face, he falters, and his arrow comes flying out clumsily, missing the group entirely. As he stops to reload, he watches as Mort diverts from the group and aims his rifle at a RED in the distance, only to put it down immediately after to pick up something. Joey squints to see what the hell his (former) friend is up to.

“Hey, Doc! Look at what I found!” Mort approaches Hartmann, who is preoccupied with healing an ailing Duncan, and shows off his newly discovered treasure. The item in question is constructed by stretching an alligator's hide onto a round, wooden frame. “I think it's some kind of native art. I could be rich!”

Duncan takes the object to inspect it closely, then bursts out laughing. “Yer not gonna get rich, lad, but what you've got here is far better than any ol' art piece. What you got 'ere is a Darwin's Danger Shield, courtesy of Mann Co. Put it on at yer next Respawn, an' give 'er a go!” As he watches Mort run off to get mauled in a sadistic display of bullets and projectiles, the Demoman cannot help but smile. “Such an eager lad, isn't he? It's refreshing to see young blood like him on the field. Even Vince looks like an ol' fogey compared to 'im.”

“Hey, you vatch your mouth, old man!” Hartmann playfully punches Duncan, who takes it in stride. “But I suppose you have a point. Bothersome as he is, I hope he never changes.” He witnesses Mort's frequent misaiming and subsequent fiery death. “On second thought, his aim could use some serious improvement.”

Shortly after Respawning, he dons the gator shield, sacrificing his sub-machine gun in the process, and runs out, sniper rifle in hand. It's proven to be surprisingly useful, as its durability gives him a better chance of survival. On the other hand, because of the organic materials from which it was made, it also makes him more vulnerable to fire, meaning he will need to steer clear of Pyros. The absence of the SMG would have been another downside, but the weapon's lack of use makes it hard to miss.

More confident than ever, Mortimer comes out from behind his hiding spot and is risking becoming an open target for the sake of setting his sights on the Soldier that's been hindering his team's progress. But just as he is about to pull the trigger, an arrow barely grazes his cheek, slicing some hairs from his lengthy sideburns as it flies by. Miffed that his aim's been screwed, he scans his surroundings for the perpetrator, finally stopping at the platform above the mine. He runs off to hide, then stares through his scope, zooming into the figure reloading his arrows.

_Joey?_

For a long moment, he hesitates, his trigger finger twitching. On the one hand, shooting him will free his team of a huge obstacle. On the other, he'd be killing his own friend, potentially creating a bigger rift between them. He muddles over the moral dilemma for a while, but eventually sets down the rifle and joins his team as they start progressing towards the third checkpoint.

As they push past the shallow mine, Mort diverts again, this time going up the two-story building, where he last saw Joey. Kukri in hand, he rushes up the stairs, reaching his destination in short time. But as soon as he finds the roost, his legs suddenly stick to the floor, and his numb hands drop the knife.

Moments before, Joey had gotten into a struggle with a Spy from the BLU team. Thankfully, he was weak and terrible at stealth, so disposing of him was far from difficult. He was just about to throw the Spy from the window when Mort came in. He curses under his breath and drops the blue-suited corpse. “Did you seriously come all the way up here just to kill me? Awfully reckless of you.”

Mortimer snaps out of it and picks up his knife, only to sheathe it. “Actually, I came here to talk.”

He sneers. “Do you remember where we are? We've got a job to do here! I ain't got time to mess around!”

“I ain't messin' around, either! You've been actin' like a big jerk lately. I dunno what RED's done to you, but I don't want our friendship to end just 'cause we're on different teams.”

“I didn't do anything but tell you the truth. And the truth is, you're a meddling, saccharine fool!”

“I may be a meddling idiot, but I do it because I care and I believe in doing things for the greater good.” Mort whips out his kukri and points it at Joey's chest. “Let's settle this like mercs do. If you win, I'll stop meddling and we'll end our friendship here an' now. But if I win, you'll take back what you said and we can keep being friends.”

Joey's features soften as he gives a smirk. “Loser pays for dinner?”

“Dinner for the rest of the week.”

He shows off his Bushwacka and jabs it in Mort's direction. “As the old cliché goes: You're on!”

_SHING!_  The clash of steel rings throughout the area as the two duke it out. Joey has the advantage in size and power, though his blade could not reach its full potential. Meanwhile, Mortimer is more agile, his strong and sturdy legs making up for his knife's old age and comparatively short length. Some nicks and cuts are made here and there, but the duo's skill levels are equal enough that it quickly becomes a stalemate. Shortly after realizing this, they settle on a battle of fists. The spiked knuckles on Joey's gloves prove themselves useful, capable of causing severe injury and bleeding, but Mort's thighs are strong enough to snap bones in half. Ignorant of the time passing around them, the duel continues, a flurry of fists and kicks creaking the floorboards and smashing the lockers.

Meanwhile, Vincent has just respawned and is heading towards the third checkpoint when he hears a ruckus going on in the nearby building. Recalling the last time he saw Mort, he becomes concerned about the Sniper's current state and starts running as fast as he can inside. As he dashes up the stairs, he can hear voices alongside the noise and calamity.

“Dammit, Mort, I'm not gonna lose this time! 'Specially not to you.”

_CRASH!_

“Sorry, Joey, but I'm the winner of this round.”

_SMASH!_

“Not so fast. I can still get on top!”

_THUD!_

“Oh, Joey, you sure know how to play rough!”

The Scout's unsure of how to interpret the conversation going on, but when he barges in on the fighting duo, his eyes grow wide at the sight before him. The two Snipers are on the floor, with Joey pinning Mort's hands down, and with Mort's legs spread out and wrapped around Joey's waist. Their bodies brushing against each other and their noses practically touching, they appear to be in the midst of an intimate moment. Vince, his cheeks flushed, repeatedly shifts his gaze as he stammers, “C-carry on with your business,” and exits stage left.

Stunned, Joey opens his mouth to explain to the BLU Scout as he runs off, but no words come out. As the light footsteps fade into the distance, Mortimer moves in to kiss him on the cheek. “Looks like dinner's on you,  _sweetie_.” He chuckles as he stabs Joey in the chest with his kukri and twists the blade, killing him instantly.

That evening, after celebrating a narrow victory with his comrades, Mortimer hurries to the locker room to shower and change into a nicer set of clothes. As he walks out, he bumps into a large figure.

“You certainly clean up nicely.”

Mort looks up and smiles at the familiar face of the doctor. “Thanks, doc. I took your advice an' told 'im how I felt. Thanks to you, I've got a date!”

“Ah, zhat's vonderful to hear. By zhe vay, I've heard about vhat happened back at zhe payload mission.” He leans in and whispers in Mort's ear, “Next time, do it outside zhe battlefield. You vouldn't vant your little secret to go out, ja?” He pats the Aussie on the shoulder and grins. “Vell, best be on your vay now. Ta-ta!” It takes all of Mort's effort not to punch him out of embarrassment.


	17. Purification in Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features a character crossover with OFF; because his appearance is relatively minor, I didn't feel the need to note others about it in the tags.

6 A.M., the alarm clock screams and throws a mighty tantrum. 6:01 A.M., Joey rolls out of bed and “disciplines” the clock by bashing its head in. 6:02 A.M., Joey follows the sweet smell of cooked bacon into the kitchen, then sits down and has breakfast with Zhen—prestigious chef and most adorable roommate. 6:25 A.M., he dresses up, brushes his teeth, and styles his hair in his usual way. Fifteen minutes 'til seven, he and Zhen are out the door.

“You're late.” The snowy-haired Medic, Dante Alterheim, flashes the two mercenaries his usual, cheery smile, though his eyes tell a different story. “Such tardiness cannot be permitted for much longer.”

“But it's only by five minutes,” Zhen protests. “If you're gonna complain about tardiness, you should go talk to Valdo. He's not even here yet!”

“Oh, am I?” Joey and Zhen turn around, and sure enough, there's Valdo, his cold gaze boring into them. “But I've been here all this time.” A crooked smile forms from behind his striped red scarf. “Haven't I, Dante?”

“Indeed,” says the doctor. “Zhat's vhat I like about you, Fledermaus: you are alvays such a good boy. Unlike some naughty little boys I vould rather not mention.” Zhen turns to give Dante an earful, but Joey covers his mouth before he can do so.

“Vielen Danks, Führer. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?” As he says this, he starts lifting his arm from behind his back, barely displaying the glistening weapon in his hand.

“Ja. I have some files in my office zhat need organizing. Und vould you mind cleaning up my desk, bitte?”

Valdo lowers his arm, hiding the blade again. “It would be my honor, sir.” He turns and walks off, using the scarf to wipe the still-fresh blood from his knife.

“Zhen-y,” he says with a chilling smile, “You can run off now.” Reluctantly, Zhen does as he's told, taking one last glance at Joey before leaving. “As for you, I vould like to speak to you.” With a waggle of his finger, he orders Joey to follow him into the storage room. As he enters, a dove—its feathers stained with crusted blood—flies in through an open window, landing on his pert finger. “A little birdy told me you vere having dinner vith zhe BLU Sniper last night.”

“It wasn't what it looked like. Mort an' I made a bet, and I lost.”

“Regardless of zhe context, you vere spotted fraternizing vith zhe enemy. Tell me, Herr Buckman... How is he?”

The Sniper's eyes is taken aback. “Er, fine. Least, he was when I last saw him.”

“Really? I think he vould be ecstatic. I mean, going on a date vith zhe man he loves.” He sighs dreamily, “It really is quite a romantic scenario.”

“It's not a date,” Joey yells, scaring the bird away. Realizing that his cheeks are burning up, he simmers down. “N-not in that sense.”

Dante, a sad and serene look on his face, gently brushes his fingers against the stubble on Joey's cheeks. “Joey, how do you feel about Mort? Do you really see him as just a friend?”

The Aussie's cheeks, still warm, burn up again at the doctor's touch, and his eyes glisten with tears. His shifting gaze confirms his inner turmoil. “I... I don't know. I like him, but I dunno how much.”

“Ah, vell, you'll know in time. Ve have vork now!” He pats the larger man's shoulder and walks off, leaving him to his business.

Joey, still conflicted, skips out on the entire morning shift.

“Huh? Art exhibit?” Mortimer opens the colorful brochure and skims through it, unable to process the words as well as the pictures. Alan, sitting next to him, is peeking over his shoulder to get a good look.

“Ay, a bar mate of mine works at an art museum 'ere. He said there's a merc holdin' an exhibition there, an' he thought we might be interested.” Duncan takes a swig from the soda can. “I think 'is name was Valdo Scott or somethin'.”

 

The Sniper freezes up. “V- _Valdo_ Scott?”

“Ain't many people with that kind o' spelling 'round these parts.”

“Say, isn't zhat Vinci's brother's name? Vinci should know about zhis, right?”

“I dunno what's that kid's business lately. If yer lookin' for 'im, you should ask Hart or Janey.”

Neither of them have time to react as Mortimer leaves, taking the brochure with him.

The first place Mort checks is the infirmary, where Hartmann is flipping through folders containing X-rays, prescriptions, and other medical and personal information. His reading ability is not the greatest, but he recognizes the names of his friends well enough to know that the names on most of those folders are not theirs. He picks up a random folder from the desk and flips through it, only for it to be snatched away by Hartmann. “Zhat's classified information, you idiot!”

“You don't have t' worry, doc—I can barely read!”

“Zhat's not zhe point!” He slips the folder between two others—one of which is labeled with Vincent's name—and closes the file cabinet. “Now, vhat is your purpose here? Paper cut? Itchy scalp? Bumped your head getting out of bed again?”

Having caught a glance of the files before Hartmann hid them, Mort snaps his fingers. “Oh, I just remembered! Duncan told me Valdo was holdin' an art exhibition.” He holds out the brochure. “I dunno what it says, but his works're really good. I didn't know he was a drawer.”

“He's a painter, not some piece of furniture,” Hartmann corrects him as he takes the brochure and slaps it against the bushman's head. “Valdo is but a newcomer in zhe art vorld, yet he has been regarded vith much praise. It's no surprise zhe local museum is holding an exhibition for his vorks.”

“So Valdo's, like, a celebrity 'round these parts? No way, I'm totally jealous!” He receives another whap on the head.

“If you have a grudge to hold, take it up vith him personally. He'll be appearing on opening night. Vhich just so happens to be...”

“Tonight?” Zhen fumbles to readjust his helmet after he has slapped it out of balance. “But I've got the closing shift at home.”

“Zhat should not be a concern. Your family vill be catering for tonight's event. I vill make it so.” Dante flashes a gentle smile, which the Soldier reciprocates with a salute.

“Thank you, good sir. I promise I will do my best!” He runs off, eager to call his parents.

Confident that the concessions are taken care of, Dante proceeds to his office. As soon as he enters, he takes a look around, making sure everything has been taken care of. The desk is immaculate, and the files are put in perfect order. Sitting off to one corner is Valdo, painting away. “Vorking on your latest masterpiece, I see,” Dante says as he approaches the Scout. Staring over his shoulder, he can see the splashes of red, circled around what appear to be a trio of glowing white rings. “Tell me, Fledermaus: vhat is zhe meaning of zhis one?”

“There is none. At least, none that I know of yet.” Valdo stops to stare blankly at the work in progress. “I only see purity... and corruption.”

“Ah. Zhe neverending battle of darkness and light, a struggle between ego, id, und superego. How delightful!”

“No. It's just purity and corruption. Look closely.”

Seeing no point in arguing anyway, Dante bends over and adjusts his glasses. Upon closer inspection, he notices something a little off about the shade and texture of the red paint. It is too deep and coarse for the paints he usually buys. And then there's that coppery smell. “Is zhat...?”

“It is what it is, old man,” the Scout replies bluntly as he stares down at his red-stained hands.

“Mein Junge, you really are a genius! I'll leave you to your vork. Cover up zhat smell before people start getting suspicious, ja?” The bearded doctor smiles and pats Valdo's shoulder and heads out. Valdo appears to neither notice nor care about what just happened; his mind is focused solely on his work.

Later that night, a large crowd of people have gathered inside the museum building, waiting for the arrival of the artist himself. Many of the people there are dressed formally and oozing with sophistication, but there are still some locals and non-locals in casual outfits, with an occasional lout too uncouth to bother wearing something nicer. Mortimer—sporting a ratty old jacket and mud-stained boots—is one of said louts.

“You could have at least taken a shower before leaving,” Alan pinches his nose and winces at the musky smell emanating from Mort.

“But Pvt. Stripeytail—”

“Forget about zhose stinky vermin for once, why don't you?”

“Vill you shut up? Zhe curator's speaking.”

Standing behind the podium is a handsome, middle-aged man with sharp, slender features and two whisks of graying hair, shaped like bird wings. The man speaks with an Italian accent that had been softened out through years of interaction with other cultures, especially French and English. “And now for zhe moment you've all been waiting for, here he comes... our beloved virtuoso of mystery, Valdo Scott!”

The man reluctantly steps out of the spotlight while Valdo—who was waiting out of sight of the spectators—takes center stage. The Scout glances at Dante, who gestures an order to smile, then smiles weakly and turns his attention to the audience. “Thank you, Luca. All my life, I've been asking: what is the meaning of life? Is there any? Even now, this question comes up, just worded differently. I've been asked by many people if there's any meaning behind the paintings I do. And my answer is yes. There is a meaning to all of them. The same meaning: struggle.

“People say there is no black and white in humanity—just varying shades of gray. I say they're wrong. There will always be two sides in every battle: good versus evil, soldiers versus citizens, red versus blue. As people, we fight many battles, all at once. And regardless of what people say, most of our problems can only be solved alone. Our purpose is to struggle, to conquer or be conquered, to devour the blackness within us. There is no gray within us; just black and white.”

Luca reenters the stage and pushes Valdo aside. “Thank you, Mr. Scott. Speaking of reds and whites, we are proud to announce zhat a brand new piece would be unveiled at zhis exhibition. Zhere will be a silent auction later tonight, where it will be sold to zhe highest bidder upon closing time. For zhose too poor or uncultured to buy it, you can still see it proudly displayed while it is still available. With zhat out of zhe way, I hope you enjoy zhe strange wonders of Valdo Scott!”

With the grand opening speeches over, the visitors flock into the main hall, where the artworks are displayed. As the crowd thins out, Mortimer and his comrades split up and start wandering about. Mort recognizes a handful of the paintings from the brochure, but many of them are brand-new to him, and even the ones he's familiar with look even more beautiful and vivid in person. As Luca had mentioned, Valdo's works are indeed strange—the figures are warped, the colors overly bright, and the imagery almost nightmarish. But somehow, they speak to him, as if they are the byproducts of his soul. Lost in his own world, he accidentally bumps into a tall figure. “Ye okay?” The voice is deep and rugged, like the figure itself.

Mort's eyes glisten the moment they make contact with the figure's one. “Never felt better, Duncs!” He turns his attention to the painting before them: a depiction of the moon's many faces, accompanied by a horrific sequence of man turning into beast. “Say, ya like this stuff?”

“Yeah. Reminds me of the old legends from my homeland.” Duncan stares at the painting, a glum look on his face. “I don't necessarily agree with the artist's perspective, but that's no reason why I can't enjoy it. Art comes in many faces, and those faces can hold different meanings for everybody. Valdo has a point about life consisting of many struggles, but his vision lacks depth.” He looks at Mort. “What do you think when you see this?”

After pondering for half a moment, Mort answers, “I can't think of anything. I just think it looks cool.”

Duncan chuckles. “That's what I thought.”

“Oi, Duncs, ya think I can become a full-time werewolf? I think it'd be hella sick!”

Instantly, his mood shatters, and he averts his gaze. “You seriously think so?” An eager nod from the Sniper. “Well, there's no doubt there's an appeal to it, but...” He shoos the thought way. “How 'bout you keep looking around? I think I've seen Miller recently. Go check up on 'im, will ya?” The moment he mentions the Engineer's name, Mort perks up and starts skipping down the hall.

Wherever Miller was when Duncan last saw him, he is no longer there. But Mortimer catches sight of a bizarre painting of a ghostly man, with multicolored birds flying from his empty eye sockets and gaping mouth. Right next to it is a painting of a ballet dancer in black, her head bowed and arms stretched out like birds' wings. Though it is the most normal-looking of Valdo's works thus far, Mort cannot help but shiver at the sight of it. Hartmann, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying it, gazing dreamily at it. “Doc?”

Hartmann snaps out of his trance. “Oh. Hello, Morty. Or should I say 'G'day'?” He attempts to imitate an Australian accent and fails tremendously, as he probably already knows. “How are you enjoying zhe exhibition?”

“It's great! Although...” He trails off as he glances at the strange picture nearby. “Doc, how does one person come up with all this stuff?”

“I cannot speak for Valdo, but vhenever I look at one of his paintings, I feel as if he is speaking directly to my soul. He may be seen as eccentric to everybody else, but I think he can see things zhat nobody else can.” He jabs a finger down the long hallway from where Mort had come. “All zhese artvorks you see here, zhey send a message to somebody. Those people, in return, are drawn to zhem, like zhey're under a spell. Many artists have tried to create art vith zhat intent, but very few succeed.”

Mort seems more confused than enlightened. “Doc, yer scarin' me.”

“Vell, you'll find something sooner or later. Just keep looking.”

“Um, alright.” The bushman tiptoes around the Medic, whose expression quickly turns solemn. He continues onward, scanning the walls for something to “speak” to him, but nothing clicks with him. Entering the largest exhibition room, his eyes grow, as he witnesses the biggest painting he's ever seen. It's a large slab of deep red, offset by large rings of white. It doesn't appear to hold much intrinsic meaning, but the simplicity of it makes it all the more eye-catching. Tearing his sights away from it, he notices Vincent standing next to another, taller figure—dressed in a striped white baseball uniform, but with skin too pale for an athlete. He can hear faint hints of a conversation between them, but is unable to piece together the context.

Earlier, Vincent had been wandering around, deliberately avoiding the crowds whenever possible. While he didn't mind being thrown into combat with everything and everyone trying to kill him, in public areas like this, the very presence of people feels suffocating. He's tried to explain time and time again how much he despises social events and large crowds and how uncomfortable they make him feel, to no avail. Tonight, however, he's made an exception for his brother.

He walked through the rooms, admiring his twin's handiwork and even recognizing a few here and there, when he came into the main room, where the newest piece was being displayed. Compared to Valdo's older, more surreal works, this one stood out as rather unusual, due to its simplicity. Spellbound, he approached the painting. He could not piece together the meaning or symbolism behind it—he never was good with that kind of stuff—but something about it spoke to him.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Vincent, startled, flinched and looked up at the voice's source. The figure was tall and pale, and wearing a baseball uniform for some reason. “'Purification in Progress'—that's what he calls it. Pretty straightforward title, if you ask me.” He points at the rings. “Those represent the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

“Strange. I thought it meant Ego, Superego, and Id.” Vince pointed out each ring, assigning a name to each of them.

“Perhaps. But how do you explain that?” He lowered his hand, below the rings to the exact center of the painting.

“Explain what,” Vincent asked, squinting.

“That shadow.”

The Scout rubbed his eyes and looked again. At first glance, everything seemed normal, but as he paid more attention, he noticed the center looked darker than the rest of it. As if something once existed, but was painted over. “It almost looks like...”

Mortimer wants to call out to Vincent, but seeing how engaged he is with the other man, he bites his lip. Feeling downtrodden, he turns and is about to head out when his peripheral gaze spots a small painting largely ignored by the rest. It is a small, simple portrait of an organic shape—one which, upon closer inspection, resembles an animal fetus of some sort—cradled in the arms of a womanly figure while strings of red wrap and swirl around the shape, daring to strangle it. Even by the standards of Valdo's works, this one is downright weird. Yet, he cannot help but be drawn to it. “'Mutter'...” He whispers to himself, reading the title plaque directly below it.

“'Mutter'. It means 'mother' in German,” a familiar voice points out. Suddenly standing beside Mort is the dandelion-haired man from his childhood. “I've tried to pry some sense of meaning from Valdo, but he ain't telling.” He sighs. “But I take it you're thinkin' the same thing I am.”

Facing the painting, Mort's brows furrow, and his gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah...”

“You remember my mum, right?” Mort nods. “They always say mother knows best, but I don't believe that. After the divorce, mum took custody of all of us, but lost something significant in the process. Mothers are supposed to make you feel safe and secure, but at home, I felt anything but. That's why I'm grateful to have met you.”

The BLU Sniper, astonished, turns his attention to the RED. “Grateful? I thought I was just a burden.”

“You were a big pain in the arse. But you gave me something to look forward to, something to protect when I couldn't protect my brothers.” Pause. “Hey, remember what you promised me before I left? You told me you'd grow a beard an' become stronger.”

Mortimer pulls at the hairs on his sideburns. “Well, I'm kinda halfway there.”

“Please! You're too modest. You beat me the other day.”

“But you totally outmatched me in sheer strength. I only won 'cause Vince butted in an' distracted you.”

“That was pretty sneaky of you. Still, you beat me with your own strength, so I say we're about equal now.”

He gasps. “So I...?”

Joey wraps his arm around Mort's shoulder and pulls him closer. “Yeah, you did.”

Eventually, the exhibition comes to a close, and the people gather to hear the results of the silent auction. “And zhe winning bet is... Number twenty-five, for zhe amount of...  _$3,000?_ ” Luca's jaw drops as the mysterious Bidder #25 steps on stage. As if destiny had foreseen this, the bidder happens to be the pale-skinned man in the sports uniform. “Congratulations, Monsieur...?”

“Batteur,” the man says bluntly, his voice revealing hints of a French accent. “But you can call me 'The Batter'.”

“Er, yes, Monsieur Batteur. Well, we shall have zhis shipped to your place of residence by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, but I'll be taking it now.” His stoic expression sends chills down the other man's spine. Moments later, The Batter—accompanied by Vincent—is carrying the painting to his van.

“Why am I helping out a random stranger, may I ask?” Vince hoists the painting on top of the vehicle and starts strapping it down.

“Because you seem up to the task,” says The Batter as he helps out. “Valdo Scott, isn't it? Your name?”

“Uh, no. I'm Vincent. Valdo is my brother. We're twins.”

“Twins? So the person I met in the main hall, that was you?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. Sorry for ruining your expectations.”

“I never had any in the first place.”

Vince's frown sinks lower. “My brother is somewhat of a recluse, so I doubt you'd be able to find him wandering around, anyway.”

“I see. But it would've been nice to get his autograph, at least. But enough of that.” He finishes securing the straps. “Come with me. I'll need help hauling it up to my apartment.”

Vince gives a look of confusion. “But we just met, and my friends are waiting for me—”

“Just a few minutes. I can drive you home afterward.”

“Um, alright. But just this once.”

Vincent hops into the passenger seat, and the stranger drives him into the residential outskirts, where towering condominiums are teeming with out-of-towners and mercenaries who—for a variety of reasons—live there instead of the barracks. Luckily, The Batter's apartment is within sight from where he parked, but it's located on the second floor, which makes the Scout nervous as they carry the painting upstairs. Together, they waste little time getting it into the apartment. A quick skim of the environment tells Vince that the pale man is still breaking into his new home. The furniture is plain, unopened boxes are strewn about the living room, and the walls are bare, save for the hideous, peeling wallpaper and chipping paint. Counting the number of doors, he assumes that there must be a second bedroom just down the hall.

“Sorry 'bout the mess. I just moved here the other day.” The Batter sets down his side of the painting and leans it against the wall nearest the entrance. “It's more spacious than I'd have liked, but at least I have a place to stay for now. Rent's a bit of a monster, though.”

An idea suddenly hits Vincent. “Um, I know it's a bit soon, since we've just met, but would you happen to be in need of a roommate?”

“I never intended for one, but it's a better idea than turning the spare bedroom into storage space.”

“Plus, it'd cut down on the rent.”

“That's true.”

“And I can help you find a job, too.”

“But what about your brother...?”

“Don't worry. I see him way more than I need to. If I recommend you to my company, you can meet him, too.”

“Where do you work, anyway?”

“Oh, just a little place called Builders League United. You've probably seen some billboards on the way here. Don't worry about a thing: they're  _always_ hiring.” Vincent flashes a bucktoothed grin—possibly the most genuine he's given in a while. And happiness, as they always say, is contagious.


	18. Weep Not for the Devil

“I still can't believe somebody bought that horrid piece of crap,” Luca grumbles as he drops his cigarette and stomps on it. “And for three grand! What kind of tasteless idiot would pay that much for that brat's shitty excuse of art?”

“Be careful vith vhat you're saying, Spion.” The speaker hiding in the shadows approaches the sharply dressed man. A glint of the light emitting from behind the back door leading to the museum shines on the figure's face, revealing his ivory features and the sharp glare hidden behind his glasses. “Zhat brat is our primary source of funding for zhe Lifeblood Project.”

Luca sneers and whips out another stick. “'Lifeblood Project?' You mean your silly little drug trade?”

“I assure you, my experiment is more zhan a drug trade. Any old simpleton can create an addicting drug und sell it on street corners. Vhat I am providing is zhe answer to mankind's ultimate pursuit: triumph over death itself.”

“Please. All you have is a derivative of your Medigun's healing capabilities and one test subject who's completely off his rocker.”

“Zhat test subject is proving to be of far better use zhan a cowardly Spy like you.”

Angered, the Spy throws down his half-finished smoke and grinds it under the toe of his boot. “At least my test subject is faring better than yours.”

“You mean Anonyme? She's nothing but a gender-confused twit only vorth it for zhe information she provides. Vere I in charge of your little SPAI operation, I vould have terminated her ages ago.”

“But you admit yourself she's providing decent results, identity crises aside.”

The white-haired man bites his tongue, his furrowed brows the only notable sign of his inner rage. “Perhaps further testing is required. For both of us.”

His temper simmering down, Luca gives a smug smirk. “That sounds like a reasonable compromise.”

The two men shake hands, careful not to say or do anything to ruin the moment. But all the while, they remain unaware that they are not alone in that alleyway. Hiding behind a dumpster cloaked in shadow is a tiny, childlike figure, their dark hair obscuring half of their face. Their one exposed eye has watched the conversation from start to end, and has seen enough to know something is devastatingly wrong. The small figure slinks further into the shadows and out of sight. However, in their escape, they have made a grave mistake.

The next morning, Zhen Dou goes about his usual routine: waking up early, cooking breakfast for himself and Joey, brush his teeth, and dressing up. But while he usually finishes his routines quickly, this morning, he keeps his roommate waiting impatiently for the bathroom by spacing out in front of the mirror. His eyes are still red and puffy from the previous night.

After the art exhibition ended, he got lost in the crowd, and left through the back entrance instead of the front. But the moment he heard the sound of footprints, he scrambled and hid behind the dumpster. There, he saw Luca and Dante and heard everything. The Lifeblood Project. Anonyme. He had a terrible feeling about those two, but he never realized they were the men behind the curtain of a far bigger conspiracy. He ran straight home and told Joey everything, only to later realize that he lost something of great significance. The golden flower hair clip his mother gave him on his first day at SOLDR, which he had worn everyday since then. Gone.

“We'll go look for it in the morning,” Joey told him. Considering the events that unfolded last night, finding it is an utmost priority. They opt to skip out on the first half of their morning shift to search for the missing hair piece. To their luck, they have a clear idea of the location, so they can head straight there without worrying about searching aimlessly all over the town. But despite scanning the entire perimeter, the hair clip is nowhere to be found. Try as Joey might to reassure him, Zhen is unconvinced.

Lunchtime hour arrives, and Kanpai's is crowded with hungry workers and students. Among them is Joey, accompanied by an enthusiastic Mort and a not-so-enthusiastic Miller. Due to limited seating, Mort decides to have them all share a table together, creating a rift of tension between the BLU Engineer and the RED Sniper. Unaware of his friends' clear discomfort with each other, he blabbers on and on, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.

“... Alan's birthday party just passed a few days ago. You should've been there, it was amazing! There was a big cake, an' lots of presents, an' we went to the fair. 'Course, I wish it could've taken place on 'is actual birthday. Hey, Joey, yer birthday's comin' up, right? I should start thinkin' 'bout presents.”

“Mort, my birthday's not for another four months.”

“Oh, right. What about you, Milly?”

Miller's brow twitches. “My birthday's in February— _five_ months ago.”

“Oh... Well, happy birthday! How old're you now?”

Miller is about to snipe at him when Joey speaks up. “Zhen's birthday is coming up. I should probably get something. He's been awfully down since yesterday.”

Mort is about to ask why, but when a beautiful woman in a qipao approaches them instead of Zhen, his mood turns dreary. They take their orders and stay silent until the lady's out of sight. Determined to know the meaning behind Zhen's sudden absence, the bushman pressures Joey into blurting out everything.

“I never realized anything like that was goin' on in any of our companies.”

“Neither could I. From the sounds of it, the experiments are most likely self-funded, or connected to organizations other than our workplaces. Still, the fact that such a thing could be occurring right under our noses is almost unthinkable.” Joey glances at Miller, who's silent, but visibly uncomfortable with the topic. “You know anything going on at BLU?”

After a moment of hesitance, Miller removes his goggles, revealing sharp red eyes, and glares at him. “I don't know anything personally, but I do know someone who might be of assistance.”

Mort, eager, butts in. “Really? Who?”

“Hartmann.”

The BLU Sniper turns sullen. “But Doc wouldn't do anything like that... would he?”

“I dunno. He's good at what he does, but he's too straightforward a character to have any ulterior motives. Then again, he hasn't told y'all anything, has he?” His eyes shift towards Mort, whose brown eyes are burning with a desire to know. “Well, since ya asked, lemme tell you a little story. Long time ago, there was a young man. He came from Germany with dreams of creating weapons for war. Come World War I, he found an opportunity with an American company that specialized in weapons building. Their name was Team Fortress Industries.

“Throughout the first war an' the second, TFI hired him to build powerful weapons an' 'test' 'em. Those who had a run-in with him called him 'Devil of A Thousand Bullets'—an ambitious and uncreative title for a very dangerous man. After the war ended, RED's bigwig lauded his skills an' hired 'im to work at his company. Things worked out for a while, but then he started getting threats, an' after a few failed assassination attempts, he pushed the big reset button on his life. Flash forward to thirteen years later, he's workin' at BLU, as the world's worst Medic.”

Finished with his story, Miller turns his attention to Mortimer, who's frozen with shock. On the other hand, Joey is stone-faced. “How do you know about this? For all we know, you could be makin' the whole thing up.”

The Engineer shrugs off the comment casually. “As I've said, you could always ask Spook about it. But I'd rather you hear it straight from the horse's mouth.”

“From a former colleague of his?”

“Oh, smart boy, arentcha? I did work with Doc at RED before comin' here. In fact, we used to work together back in the ol' TFI days. We used t' be best buds, 'til he went crazy an' stopped trustin' everybody. Can't imagine why he'd hold a grudge against me especially.”

“Considering he had somebody out to kill 'im, I can imagine not wanting to trust anybody after that.”

Their food finally arrives, and they eat in silence. Once they finish, Joey and the others part ways, with the BLU members taking Miller's truck back to the barracks. Along the way, Mortimer asks, “By the way, you never did answer my question.”

Miller clutches the wheel tightly. “What question?”

“You said yer birthday's back in February. So what's yer number, trucker?”

The Engineer swallows. “Th-thirty-six. You?”

“Thirty!”

Going over the numbers in his head, he realizes he's made a fatal mistake. “Mort, I m-may have fibbed a little back there.”

“Fibbed when?” Mort snaps his fingers. “Oh, you mean when you mentioned you used to work with Hartmann at TFI? Or was it when you said you and he used t' be best mates? Or how 'bout when you forgot to mention that you were the one behind the assassinations, hmm?”

Miller, coming to terms with his situation, pounds the brake, sending the car to a screeching halt. “How...? How did you figure it out? I thought you were just an idiot. Guess I was wrong.”

Serene and innocent, Mort elaborates. “I remembered what you said about Doc holdin' a grudge against you 'specially an' thought 'If I was Doc, who else would I hold a bigger grudge than the blokes who tried t' kill me'? There's also the fact that, like me, you'd be just a kid when World War II began, an' not even born during the first one. Even if I didn't know 'bout all that, the big age gap between the two of you would've been a giveaway. Then again, what do I know? I'm just an idiot.” His smile cracks, turning into a frightening grin. The Engineer, backed into a corner, tries to justify his actions, but a low, growling voice interrupts him. “If Hartmann's the Devil, then you don't even deserve Hell.” Cold, umber eyes bore holes into his soul as he is booted out of his own truck.

Later that day, Mortimer grabs Alan and drags him into the infirmary, where Hartmann is scribbling down notes and sketches for his latest contraption. There, he repeats the story that the Engineer had told him. The doctor does not interrupt him, but his expressions tell all that needs to be said. “Zhat Miller vas alvays a bastard. Calling me a devil and an awful Medic. But blackmailing Spy for my background is going too far.”

Mort raises his brows. “I never mentioned that—”

“It's nothing he hasn't done before. He is not strong enough to deal vith me directly, so he vould bribe or blackmail Spies to get vhat he vants. Isn't zhat right,  _Alan?_ ”

Alan's eyes grow wide. “How did you know? I wasn't wearing my mask!” His face contorted with anger, he turns to Mort. “You told him, didn't you?”

“I've overheard your conversation vith Miller zhe other night,” Hartmann says. “He threatened to reveal your secrets if you didn't tell him mine. You two vere pretending to be admiring zhe artvorks, but vhat neither of you have noticed vas zhat I vas standing right next to you. Right after you left, Mort came into zhe picture.”

“But how did you know it was him?” the Sniper asks, baffled by this new information.

“Mere assumption, mostly. But even vithout his mask, I could easily recognize his voice and vardrobe. More importantly, who better to turn to for confidential information zhan a master intelligence gatherer? You know everything about everybody around you; you're a valking database, ripe for zhe picking.”

“Zhat sounds like more zhan a 'mere assumption'.” The Spy crosses his arms and glares at him.

“Doc, is it true, though? Are you really 'The Devil of a Thousand Bullets'?”

Hartmann pauses, then guffaws. “Ah, you kids und your crazy imaginations! Zhat vas ein Fehler—a big mistake! Back in zhe day, zhey called me 'Zhe Devil of a Thousand  _Beauties_ ', because I flirted vith all die Frauen. I vas quite zhe handsome devil back zhen—und I still am.”

“Honestly, I think Miller's story sounds more believable—” Alan is abruptly knocked out by a giant fist in the face.

Hartmann, visibly annoyed, turns to Mort. “Vant to add somezhing?”

“Actually, I wanna ask about you and Miller.”

The Medic's shoulders relax, and his countenance softens. “You're feeling betrayed, right? Zhat's exactly how I felt zhe day I found out. I caught him writing a letter threatening to harm mein Frau, und I confronted him about it. Ve had a fight, but somebody broke us apart before it got too serious. Since zhen, I've realized I could no longer stay at RED, and I requested a transfer to BLU. Zhe process vas a bit complicated, but I managed to start over my life here.” His eyes start welling up, and the edges of his lips curl upward. “I don't regret it one bit.”

Mort stays silent, sparing a moment for the doctor to rub his eyes. “Can I ask one more question?”

Sniff. “Shoot.”

“Why did you become a doctor? No offense, but you kinda suck.”

He chuckles weakly. “Mein Frau... I vanted to save her, to make her smile. Even if it meant having to learn everything myself, I was villing to do vhat it takes to fulfill it. But I couldn't.” Suddenly, in a fit of rage, he sweeps everything from his desk and slams his fists against its surface. “ _I failed as a doctor and as a husband!_ ”

Breathing heavily, Hartmann slumps back into his seat and covers his face, sobbing uncontrollably. Mortimer, quivering and on the verge of tears, can do little more than embrace him and provide a shoulder to cry on.


	19. RED is the Color of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short, RED-centered chapter. Trigger warning for death and gruesome violence.

As the days pass, Zhen becomes more worrisome, fretting over little details like there's no tomorrow. By the time his birthday rolls around, he can no longer feel joy over the coming of his official indictment. All he can think of throughout the graduation ceremony is his missing hair clip. The only time he feels relaxed is when he is alone with his mother as she straightens up his hair. To ensure that their conversation remains private, they speak in the Japanese woman's native language.

“Zhen-chan, your hair's growing quite long,” she says as her fingers brush his bangs aside. “Why haven't you brought your favorite clip to tie it up? You'd look beautiful with it on.”

Zhen's body stiffens up. “A-actually, I... I lost it. I'm sorry, mom.”

She gasps in surprise, but sighs sadly and continues brushing his hair. “I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I suppose such things happen.” She takes his long bangs and slicks it back. “This style doesn't look cute on you, but it makes you look mature. It's probably better this way.” Moving around to face him, her eyes are level with his. “My little panda, why do you cry? What's done is done. All we can do now is look forward.” Three knocks on the door cut her speech short, and she switches to English. “Come in.”

The door slides open, and Joey enters. “Oi, Peanut-chan. You ready or what?” Upon noticing the presence of the woman on the floor, he stops and bows frantically. “Sorry. I didn't notice you were there, Dou-san.”

“Ah, don't worry. We're friends now. And please call me Haruka-chan; 'Dou-san' sounds so formal!”

“Uh, sure, Haruka... chan.” He turns his attention to Zhen. “You look different.”

Haruka laughs loudly. “I know, right? He looks too young for this look, I say. He'd look cuter with a headband or something.”

“Wait, I think I might have something.” He digs through his pockets and takes out a red ribbon and his knife. He then proceeds to restyle Zhen's hair, cutting the bangs short and wrapping the ribbon around like a headband. “There,” he says as he adjusts the bow he made. “That oughta do it.”

Zhen stares at the mirror in shock. “Dammit, now I look like a girl! Everybody's gonna laugh at me.”

Joey places his hands on Zhen's shoulders. “Cheer up, kid. Even if they make fun of you, they'll stop laughing once you kick their ass. C'mon. Let's go.”

As they're about to leave, Haruka stops them for a moment. “Zhen-y, Baba called earlier and said he'll be working late tonight. I'm sorry.”

The ceremony goes over peacefully, with each student walking the stage with their partner and receiving their diplomas. Zhen hears some of his peers snickering behind their back, but he chooses to ignore it and strut the stage with pride. As the head principal hands him his diploma, he takes a side glance at the audience; as his mother had warned, his father is nowhere in sight. Being one of the top students at the academy, he receives his diploma early and sneaks out with Joey. Their plan for the evening was to get the graduation part over with and continue searching for the missing hairpiece. They start by heading straight for the barracks.

“If what Luca is saying is correct, he should know where it is,” Zhen whispers as they tiptoe down the halls of the first floor. At this time of night, the lights are turned off and all of the rooms are locked. All except one: the infirmary. In order to get to the stairway leading to the second floor, they will need to pass by that door without catching suspicion. As they step by the door, they notice a dim light shining from the crack underneath—indicating use of a lamp, rather than the much brighter overhead lights. The likely conclusion is that he's slaving away at the desk, not the operating table. In the second that it takes to pass by the office, the duo could feel a chilling and overbearing level of tension never felt before, even in the midst of combat.

Finally, they reach the second floor. Joey—a former resident of the barracks—knows from memory which room belongs to whom, as well as many of his teammates' sleeping habits. He was unfortunate enough to have had the prissy RED Spy as a roommate, but as he makes a beeline for the room, he considers himself grateful for it. He turns the knob and slowly opens the door. As more of the dorm room is revealed, his mood shatters, as his luck has just run out.

“Hello, boys,” says a monotone of a young man. Standing in front of the window is a lanky figure, holding a blade that glimmers in the bluish light. “Luca was expecting you, so he invited me here for the night.” The figure grins, white teeth faintly visible even in the dark. “Sorry to say, you guys aren't welcome here. But while you're here, perhaps you can do me a favor and stand still while I cut you up.”

Joey growls and whips out his Bushwacka. “Like hell we will!”

“Oh, but you will. See, I just got this new toy recently, and I've been meaning to put it to good use.” He proudly shows off his blade—a cleaver. “I've only used it once before. Have I ever mentioned how annoying your sort are? Always going on about 'honor' and 'pride', as if they think they're better than the rest of us. They're awfully persistent, too—almost as if they  _want_ to die. But I will give them credit for one thing: they make damn good sushi.”

As the figure—whom neither can deny is Valdo—lovingly stares at every side of the cleaver, Zhen catches a glimpse of kanji symbols engraved on each side of the blade. “Baba,” his lips let loose before he finally screams, “What did you do with Baba?”

“Baba? I don't know any 'Baba', but I do know this knife belonged to somebody that worked at that sushi place. He put up a good fight, but in the end, I won. His blood tasted sooo good, too! Isn't that right, Cleavy?” He pressed his cheek against the cleaver's face and gently stroked the sharp edge with his fingers. “But you're still hungry, aren't you? Hungry for more of that sweet, sticky, red stuff. Such beautiful red stuff, oh, how I thirst for thee.” He giggles like a child playing with his favorite toy. “Don't worry, Cleavy, I'm gonna feed you nice and good. There's more than enough here for the both of us.”

Immediately, Valdo makes a dash towards Zhen, only to have Joey block him off. “Bastard! What was the purpose of killing him?”

The Scout pulls back and makes an overhead swing, which Joey parries. “Simple: because it worked. Dou Boy's too scared to even move now. It's just as he planned.”

“Who? Dante?” He makes another defensive swing.

“Uh-huh. And Luca, too. For some reason, they're working together now. Hoping to create the ultimate super-soldier or something.” He evades Joey's swipe and swings again. “Which is totally stupid, 'cause they already have me.”

“Well, you're not gender-confused, that's for sure.” He strikes again, this time leaving a cut on the Scout's cheek. “You must be Dante's test subject.”

Valdo's eye twitches, and he hesitates before attacking. “I'm not some mere guinea pig. I am the ultimate superhuman, the most powerful person who's ever lived.  _I am Dante's son!_ ”

The Scout takes a giant, momentous swing, which is severely mistimed, as the Sniper had already come to expect it and moved to the side, causing the cleaver to cling stubbornly to the wall. As he struggles to free his weapon, Joey takes the opportunity to slice the base of his neck, decapitating him. Zhen, still traumatized, has to be carried all the way out.

“Blood, blood, blood...” The Soldier repeats the word under his breath, in his parents' native tongues, until they reach the restaurant. He is afraid of what he might see, but his curiosity soon takes over, and he enters through the back door. As he slowly approaches the kitchen, he can see the murder scene as he imagines it: a man—no, a monster—breaking in from the back door and fighting with his father until he grabs hold of the cleaver and butchers him. When he finally arrives at the scene, he's mortified by the gruesome sight before him, yet relieved that—as he discovers—the victim was not his father. It takes him but a moment before he asks Joey to help clean up the mess.

Later, after they have wiped every last spot of blood, Joey drives Zhen back home. His father, who had left his restaurant shortly before the attack, is surprised to see his son jumping into his arms and crying for joy. Thinking it was his fault, he apologizes to Zhen and offers to whip up a special something for him and his partner. A ball of guilt wells up in Joey's throat, but he knows well enough that even if the police do catch wind of the man's death, the killer would never be caught. He ignores any further thoughts and concentrates on having a good time.  _Tonight was a crazy night, and it's only gonna get crazier from here._


	20. Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

It's a beautiful Saturday morning at the BLU barracks, and all the mercs are relieved to have fewer working hours than usual. Mort is especially relaxed, taking his lovely time to wake up and only rushing himself when food is involved. He carries his daily mountain of breakfast over to the table where Alan and Pasha are seated. “Bonjour, Mortimer,” Alan says, cheerful as ever. “Pasha and I were talking about a used bookstore zhat he visits. You want to come with us?”

“Actually, I was supposed to get something for Zhen-y, since I missed his birthday,” Mort says between bites. “You think there might be something there?”

“Of course! Zhere's also a clothing store, and a toy store, and a candy store, too. We can make zhis a shopping day.” He tugs at a pinch of Pasha's shirt. “Besides, Poppy here needs a new wardrobe. His current one is so boring!”

Pasha gives him a quizzical look. “P-Poppy?”

“Yeah, like 'tall poppy', because you're tall and snooty and stuff. And it sounds like 'Papi', which fits zhat paternal nature of yours.”

“You should not force stupid nicknames on people.”

Chewing on a sausage, Mort says, “Alright, then. How 'bout 'Pashi' or 'Pash'?”

“Those sound even worse than his.” He sighs, exasperated. “Just call me Pasha.”

“Zhen Pash-Pash it is!”

“I never even agreed to that one!”

“Aww, you're cute when you're angry.”

Pasha's face is burning red, but instead of exploding in Alan's face, he sits back down and turns away, embarrassed. “I cannot believe you would say something so cliché.”

“Cliché? I was being perfectly honest. Pash-Pash, you're such a meanie!”

Mort continues eating while watching the two of them kicking up a fuss. It is probably the most half-hearted, cutesy-est argument he's ever seen occur in front of him.  _They hardly know each other for a month, yet they're already actin' like a married couple._  Still, silliness aside, he cannot help but feel a bit jealous. When he arrived here on his first day, he had a bit of a crush on Miller. But after weeks of minimal interaction and the recent reveal of his true colors, he can no longer harbor any feelings towards him. His relationship with Joey seems to be going well thus far, despite being on opposite teams, but work-related reasons have been preventing them from hanging out regularly in the first place. Despite all the friends he's made since he came here, it's moments like the one before him that make him realize just how lonely he is.

“Zhis is zhe problem vith clothing stores: zhere's almost nothing good in my size.” Hartmann swears to himself in German as he browses through the clothes rack. Mortimer skims through the rack as well, distracting himself from Alan and Pasha as they're off in their own world. He picks out a pair of shorts that—while not in bad taste—are barely within Hart's size range and a bit on the short side, length-wise. “Are you seriously expecting me to vear zhat?” Disappointed, the bushman puts it away. “I'm glad you have invited me to help you vith clothes shopping, but perhaps our tastes are a little too different... Morty, vhat are you looking at?”

Standing behind a rack on the far end of the store is Joey, looking rather worried. Mort would have found nothing suspicious about his behavior, apart from the fact that he is flipping through women's clothes. He must not be the only one staring, as a female employee walks over to talk to the blonde Aussie. Joey seems to have convinced her with his answer, but she still gives him a strange look as she walks away. After what happened back at the beach, Mort is hesitant about approaching him, but weighing the options of angering his friend and having to endure the sickeningly sweet antics of the so-called “married couple”, he figures a little meddling will take his mind off of things.

Removing a beautiful red dress from the rack, Joey stares in awe at its silky smooth texture and gilded embroidery.  _It's perfect!_  He lays the dress flat against himself and sighs.  _Well, it's a bit small, but—_

“Hey, Joey!” Startled, Joey almost drops the dress, and he fumbles to shove it into the rack. “That's a really lovely dress there. Izzat for Zhen-y's mum?”

“Uh, not really, sorta. I, er...” Thoughts rush through his head like a rapidly-flowing current. “It's fer my mum... sister's... friend. Yeah, that's it!” He strains to make a convincing smile, hoping Mort would not know the difference.

He doesn't smile back. “Joey, can I talk to you for a mome?” The RED Sniper is thrown off, but complies. Picking out a couple of men's clothes at random, they head into the fitting room together. Once inside a room (they got a few stares, but little else), Mort tosses the men's clothes aside and helps Joey fit into the dress. “Are we still friends?”

“What're you talking about? Of course we are.” Turning around, he sees the distressed look in Mort's eyes, and he bites his lower lip. “Well, maybe not 'just' friends any longer. But regarding our situation, I don't think now is the right time.”

“Right. I agree.”

“No, listen, I... Wait. You agree with me?”

“Yeah. I've been thinkin' about it, too. It wouldn't be  _impossible_ , but unless we can get the whole 'playin' on diff'rent teams' dealio in check, it'd be hella frustrating to keep it up. Until we can, would it be alright if we hung out more as friends?” He smiles, turning from merely innocent to absolutely angelic.

Joey's cheeks burn and his cheeks well up with a suppressed passion. Instinctively, he grabs hold of Mort and pulls him closer. “Friends forever, mate.” The moment is brief and barely within the public eye, but for that moment, they are transported into another dimension, one in which time stands still and which belongs solely to them. They want to do more, but are frozen in place, too comfortable in each other's embrace.

The thrill of the moment is broken by Mort's voice. “We should hurry up with this. My friends are probably waiting.” He laces up the back of the dress and makes the final adjustments. Though hairy and muscular and more than a little bit on the pudgy side, Joey still pulls off the look well, the bright red dress accentuating his more desirable traits and trimming the waist in an attractive manner. The transformation is astounding, mesmerizing wearer and witness alike.

“I think you'd be a cute woman if you shaved that beard of yours,” Mort muses as he stares Joey top to bottom.

Joey's tan cheeks flush a bright red. “Y-you think so?”

“Sure I'm sure. Perhaps a li'l too good, if ya ask me. I'm not into chicks, y'know.”

The scar-faced Sniper is not quite sure how to react to this. As much as he admires the compliment, he doesn't want to turn his friend off, as well. “Thanks, I guess.” Suddenly, a loud knocking echoes through the cramped room. “In a sec, mate!” In haste, Joey and Mort slip the dress off of his body, then he dons his own clothes again and opens the door. On the other side is Hartmann, who's wearing an expression as if he just saw a pink elephant dancing about. “Er, I'll be goin' now. 'Ooroo, Mort!”

Joey, dress and men's clothes cradled in his arms, tiptoes around the doctor and rushes over to the cashier. As soon as he's gone, Hartmann looks at Mort with suspicion. “Vhat vere you two doing in zhere, anyvay?”

“Nothin', I swear!”

“Doesn't sound like nozhing to me.” He pulls the bushman closer and whispers, “I thought I told you to handle your little love affairs vhere nobody's going to see you. Unless you two are into zhat kind of thing.” A creepy smirk forms on his face.

Mort puts his foot down. “We're  _not_  dating.”

“ _Was?_ ” Judging by his expression, he's genuinely surprised by this revelation.

“'S like I said. We're jus' friends.” Hartmann looks disappointed, but he drops the subject.

After Hartmann makes his purchase, they meet up with Alan and Pasha in the used bookstore. Mort's jaw drops at the rows of tomes towering before him, and walks between them with trepidation. There are books big and small, old and new, in various languages and subjects. Seeing all the letters and titles pop out at him is overwhelming. He would pluck out a book from the shelf and attempt to read it, but the words would become garbled in his brain, and some occasions, he would unwittingly jump from one line to the next, forcing him to reread entire paragraphs more slowly. As much as he tries to enjoy the story, the very act of processing the words frustrates him. Alan, on the other hand, would breeze through an entire book in seconds, gathering a general feel of the narration based on a brief inspection. Watching the Spy skimming pages like it was nothing irritates Mort even more.

Alan gives Mort a side glance, then slams shut the book in his hands and approaches him. “Mortimer, I found zhis book and immediately thought of you,” he says as he shows off a paperback with a beautifully illustrated and adventurous-looking cover. “It's also easy to read, so you can take your time with it.”

Skeptical, Mort takes the book from Alan and flips through the pages. The words do not appear as long or obscure as many of the other books he encountered, and a majority of the vocabulary is recognizable enough that he can read through it at a more normal pace. Reading the summary on the back, it's a story about a boy who runs off to go live in the forest, and chronicles his adventure as he fends for himself in the harsh environment. A warm glimmer of hope rushes through his body. “It's perfect! How can I ever repay you?”

“Just reading it is thanks enough,” Alan replies, waving off the compliment with modesty. “Listen, I... I'm sorry for not paying much attention to you lately. I have just been distracted by Pasha and Luca and ozher things. I hope you have it in your heart to forgive me.” He opens his arms. “Friends?”

Staring into the Spy's deep, blue eyes, Mort can tell he means it. He sets the book aside on the shelf and embraces him. “Best mates for life.” They hold each other tightly for a long, lingering moment until a sudden realization breaks them apart. “Crikey! I forgot about Zhen-y's birthday!”

Alan raises a brow. “Janey? You mean our Janey?”

“Nonono. Zhen-y. Ya know, the li'l munchkin from RED? I promised I'll get 'im something fer this weekend.”

“Oh.”  _Two 'Janeys'. How confusing._  “Well, what does he like? I bet he likes toys, because he's so small and cute.”

“Ya think so? I've never been to 'is place before. I know he likes food, an' pandas. Come t' think of it, I hardly know anything about 'im.”

“And you're considering going to his party. How cute. Hey, why don't you ask him?” Alan points at a certain large Sniper entering the shop. As the Sniper begins to approach them, he playfully nudges Mort's arm and disappears.

Nervously, Mortimer turns away and pretends to read the book Alan gave him. When the Sniper passes by him, he buries his face deeper into the book, and when they start moving towards the next aisle, he sighs in relief, only to immediately tense up and hide again when they look back. “Morty?”

A tap of the shoulder causes Mort to yelp and toss the book. “Oh. Didn't expect to see you here.”

Joey looks confounded, staring him up and down. “I'm more surprised to see you here. What're you up to?”

“L-lookin' for a gift fer Zhen-y.”

“In a used bookstore? I figured you'd look through a toy store or something.”

_Crap, he saw right through me!_  “W-well, I thought I'd look for something more mature, since he's all grown up an' all.”

“I'm thinking of getting a cookbook.”  _What's the kid need a cookbook for? His family runs a restaurant._  “He cooks good food, but his baking's a whole 'nother story. I'm hoping to get a few for 'im to learn from.”

“Can I help? I dunno what to get 'im, and, well, you seem to know a lot 'bout him.”

“I live with the brat. How can I not know?”

“Right, Forgot about that. Hey, we can ask Al where the cookbooks... are...” He turns around, expecting Alan to be just around the corner, but the Spy is nowhere in sight.

As much as the Spy wishes to be around to help Mort, there are other matters he must attend to. Like where the hell is Pash-Pash and the fat guy? Still cloaked, he walks about the store, avoiding gazes while gazing back. They're both awfully tall, so they couldn't have gone far. As he heads towards an isolated part of the store, he starts hearing whispers.

“But I can't! Zhe team—Vincent—zhey'll all fall apart vithout me!”

“I'm sorry, but rules are rules.”

Alan peeks from behind a corner. Hartmann and Luca are together and conversing about something—rather intensely, despite their attempts to stay composed.

“Vhen?”

“Tomorrow morning. Or tonight, if you'd prefer.” Alan notices something different about Luca's speech mannerisms. He sounds more casual, and his accent lacks the fluid slur of a typical French accent. He just  _does not sound right_. “Your replacement will arrive at Teufort tomorrow.”

Alan covers his mouth to hold in a gasp.  _Hartmann's_  leaving _?_  Though they bicker and tease each other, the Spy has grown fond of Hartmann, and he's well aware that the doctor thinks the same of him.  _Then again, he is an old man. Maybe it's high time he retired._  But even that reassurance cannot alleviate the painful feeling in his gut.


	21. Auto Balanced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, we're introducing a new character! Also, trigger warning for those who aren't keen on the idea of two fat guys making out. o3o

Eventually, he finds Pasha, and they make their purchases before parting ways with Mort yet again. Alan's heart grows heavier, as his closest friend appears to be growing more distant by the day. Looking at Hartmann only reminds him of the conversation he heard earlier, forcing him to avert the Medic's gaze. When the three of them return to the barracks, their eyes widen, as the other mercs rush over to Hartmann, demanding an explanation. But of all the men present, Vincent is, by far, the scariest.

“Hartmann,” he cries out as he runs up to the doctor. Hartmann opens his mouth to speak, but he is kept silent, as the Scout grabs him by the collar and shoves him against the wall. “I found the letter. Why the hell'd you think you can keep this a secret?”  _BAM!_  Hart receives a left hook to the face. “You should have told us about the transfer first thing.”

“I was going to...”

Vince slams him again. “Bullshit! You were gonna leave us the same way you did RED, didn't you? Now you're coming back to them, you traitorous bastard!”

“Please... Let me explain—”

_WHAM!_

“Vincent, stop it!” Instinct takes over, as Alan pulls the Scout away from Hartmann and throws him on the ground. What he lacks in strength and weight, he makes up in dexterity and resourcefulness; using a tie he bought, he restrains Vince's hands and holds him down with the weight he does have.

“What is going on here?” Everybody stops what they are doing and turns around. Standing beside Miller is a tall and sturdy Asian man in a lab coat and surgical mask, his robin's egg-colored tie and gloves revealing his faction. Upon noticing the condition of the fat Medic and Scout, he frowns. “Hartmann-sensei, Vincent, are you okay?”

Alan steps off of Vince. “Quoi? You know zhem?”

He walks over to untie the restraints. “Of course I know them. I have been told about them and their... What would you call it? 'Antics'.” Standing up, he bows before the mercenaries. “My apologies for not notifying you of my arrival beforehand. The transfer request was rather sudden. Er, let's talk more over tea.”

Inside the conference room, the new Medic prepares tea and coffee and tends to Hartmann briefly before resuming. “As I was saying, I received a transfer request to replace Hartmann-sensei during his absence. Some of you might know more about this than I do, but he had received what has been known as an 'Auto-Balance Transfer'—a request from one faction to 'borrow' a member from the opposite faction to make up for a lack of troops.”

“So RED's members have been droppin' like flies,” Duncan intercedes. “I've been hearing rumors of REDs going missing an' turning up dead.”

“I would not go so far as to assume death, but yes, RED has been experiencing a drop in their numbers, and have been sending out requests to BLU. Usually, auto-balanced members are chosen at random, but for whatever reason, they seemed awfully insistent about Hartmann-sensei.”

_So the cat's come crawling back._  “Well, whatever their reason, it's out of our control now.” Miller takes a sip of coffee. “It's Doc's problem now.”

Pasha, who had stayed silent the entire time, finally speaks up. “You come barging in without warning, yet with knowledge of auto-balance transfers. Who are you, anyway?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the Asian man says humbly. “My name is Ooshiro Same—Western order. I was was stationed at Coldfront, and was supposed to be transferred to Thunder Mountain before receiving the order to come here instead. I am still on my first year, so I hope I don't become an inconvenience.”

Alan butts in. “Ah, it's no problem, mon ami! Mort and I have only been here a month or two, so don't feel bad.”

“Two months? I have been hired just a week ago. Everything is so confusing and strange. Kowai yo!”

“Of course it's confusing and strange and whatever else you just said, but zhat's what makes it so fun! Just be yourself and you'll do just fine here.”

“Yes. I'll do that.” Pause. “Speaking of which, where is Mundy-san? I've looked through sensei's files earlier, but I do not see him here.”

Miller scratches the growing stubble on his chin as he inspects the faces around the conference table.  _No dopey smiles or scruffy sideburns—none apart from Werewolf over there. This could be a problem._  “Ah, he'll be here. He's pro'lly goofin' off somewhere. Nothin' unusual.”

“So Mort often skips important meetings?”

“N-non,” the Spy cries out. “He never missed a meeting until now. He just had other matters to attend to. Besides, none of us even knew about this, let alone prepared for it.”

Ooshiro nods. “My apologies. I shall meet with him as soon as he returns. Besides, he seems like an interesting person, based on what I have heard.” His eyes glimmer with pleasant joy. “Well, now that I have introduced myself, I must attend to sensei's care. Arigatou gozaimasu.” He bows and escorts the other Medic out.

With the meeting adjourned, the team exits one by one, with Miller staying behind until long after the rest have gone. He makes way for his room, which has seen signs of Aiden's tampering, judging by the mess of toys on the floor. Stepping over the Balloonicorns and Hale Mary dolls, the Engineer reaches the dresser and rifles through the bottommost drawer until he finds a sheet of paper with some notes scribbled on it. After skimming through it, he stuffs the paper into his front pocket and leaves the barracks.

The paper was a series of directions he swiped from RED's suitcase after the intelligence mission the other day. It says specifically to visit the written coordinates on Saturday at eight thirty in the evening, signed “Der Führer”. He knew from the moment he first saw it that it was meant for him; if the message was intended for Valdo, the writer would have never put it in the suitcase in the first place. Miller knows how Der Führer works. Any old hack can encrypt a message tailored towards a specific person; it takes a true mastermind to manipulate one's surroundings to make events happen exactly as he intends.

Eventually, Miller finds himself in—of all places—the Saxton Fair. Normally, the place would be packed on a Saturday evening, yet tonight, the park is strangely empty. He warily approaches the ticket stand, where, in the shadows, a figure resides. As he gets closer, he calls out Der Führer's name in question. Suddenly, the ticket stand lights up, revealing a suited man with a frightening, ogre-like face, startling the Engineer. Then the whole park lights up and plays a haunting, yet beautiful melody.

“Bienvenidos,” the ogre cheers. Miller can instantly recognize the voice as belonging to Luca. “Miller Macintosh, the Engineer for BLU? Right this way.” The ogre-Spy escorts the Southerner to—of all attractions—the Tunnel of Love. A swan boat floats up to them, and sitting in it is Dante. “Well, whatever happens, I won't question it. Have fun, you two!” He shoves the Engineer into the empty seat next to the Medic and starts up the ride.

As they traverse down the stream of pink hearts, cherubic cupids, and diabetes-inducing sweetness, the Medic starts up the conversation. “Glad you got mein note. I vas afraid it vould have been intercepted by zhat pesky Pyro, or vorse. Anyhow, I have summoned you here to thank you for you and your sister's contribution to zhe Lifeblood Project. Vithout it, ve vould have never gotten zhis far.” He guffaws before suddenly turning grim. “I also have a very important message to bring to you.”

“If it's about the Doc's transfer, I already know.”

“It's not just zhat. It is highly possible zhat somebody on your team has become avare of our operation.”

“My team? You mean that bunch of losers? Who could be smart enough to figure it out, even if they do know? Besides, I made sure Hartmann kept his mouth shut about our goings-on.”

“Do you not understand? Hartmann is zhe least of our problems. If zhis somebody else finds out vhat ve're up to, our whole cover is blown.”

Suddenly, a lightbulb sparks on in Miller's brain. “Mortimer Mundy,” he mutters at first. “Mortimer Mundy is the man you're lookin' for,” he elaborates, louder. “Joey and Zhen found out about you and Luca and blabbed to him. Then Mort blew my cover, the smartass.”

Instead of panicking like Miller would expect, Dante remains calm. “I see... Zhis might vork out better zhan I thought. Tell me, how is his relationship vith Anonyme?”

“They seem to be close, but not close enough to know of her existence. In fact, it seems they might be fallin' apart.”

“Gut nicht. Zhey must remain friends if zhis plan is going to vork. Miller, I'm ordering you to do vhatever it takes to keep zhem together.”

Miller groans and rolls his eyes. “Agreed. An' call off Luca—he's a pain in the ass even without all the stalking.”

“It is done. Now...” Dante unfurls the ribbon around his neck and opens up his collar, revealing a bite wound around his neck. “... for your payment.”

Gazing longingly at the doctor's pale neck, the Engineer is unable to hold back his hunger any longer. He opens his mouth wide, his canines growing long and finely pointed, and he sinks his fangs deep into the Medic's flesh. Dante shudders in pleasure as the blood flows from the bite marks, sucked and swallowed by the vampire's lips and tongue, and his hands unbuckle his single-strapped overalls and slowly reach under his shirt, his fingers fondling the soft flesh underneath. Tensions rise as Miller does the same, feeling up the mortal's clothes and stroking his voluptuous figure. But just as they are on the verge of climax, the boat has made its round trip back to the docks, where the man, still wearing that dreadful mask, stands and watches.

“Looks like you were enjoying yourselves,” says Luca, his voice barely hiding his unabashed glee, “Mind if I join?”


	22. Doctor and Delinquent

Four A.M., he wakes up. Four-o'-two, he washes his hands and starts preparing his breakfast. Four-fifteen, he finishes breakfast and takes his antidepressants. Four-twenty, he goes to the bathroom to wash up. Four-forty-five, he locks and unlocks the front door three times before leaving for work. Taking advantage of every shortcut possible, he manages to reach the barracks by five-o'-clock sharp—just in time to wash up again. This has been Vincent's daily morning routine for many years. Though most would consider it confining, stressful, and insane, Vincent finds liberation, comfort, and sanity in it. (Of course, the medications and therapy help a lot, too.) But after living under Hartmann's wing for so long, he started craving change—and change was what he got.

First was the decision to become Pasha's roommate. Admittedly, he did it as an act of rebellion, knowing perfectly well how much the Medic and Heavy hate each other. But once that got out of hand, he slept overnight in the rookies' dorm before finally making the move back to Hartmann's house in the town. Then he met an eccentric foreigner and—in a moment of brain-numbness—agreed to become his new roommate.

So it is now that he's living with a stranger, befriending even stranger strangers, and on top of that, having his lifelong guardian suddenly replaced by some strange, snooty stranger from Strangeland. With all these strange and sudden changes compiling all at once since the days following his birthday, Vince is not taking it too well.

_Stay calm, Vincent_ , he repeats to himself as he prepares for the upcoming mission—an inevitable mess of pathos, dirt, and bloodshed, one which gives him purpose and clears his mind during moments of emotional duress. Usually. With the new Medic in tow, there's no telling what will happen. Hartmann knew this would happen, so he gave the Scout specific directions for such a situation.

“What's wrong, mon petit lapin?” Following Vince out of the locker rooms is Alan, adjusting his navy blue ribbon. “You do not seem so hot. Or is it you're feeling a little too hot? Well, you look under zhe weather, so I thought I should escort you, since Mort's still asleep.”

_'Still' asleep?_  One of Hartmann's directions—as he recalls—is that Mortimer is to wake up the same time as everyone else. If he cannot be awakened by normal means, then use force as needed. “It's nothing. Just adjusting to the doc's absence.”

“I thought so. You always look out of sorts whenever things go awry.” The Spy giggles, his genderless voice sounding more girlish. “I'm not good at talking about feelings like Mort is, but zhe least I can do is assist you in other ways. It's not much of a talent, but I can find and gather information about just about anything. If you need me to look up something, I'm more zhan willing to help.” He cracks a cheeky smile and winks before strutting ahead of the Scout.

Vince takes the offer into consideration, and before he knows it: “Wait!” Alan turns around, his sapphire eyes shimmering with a foreseen awareness. “If you can... Can you check up on Mr. Same? Not that I don't believe his story, it's just—”

“You don't trust him, is that right?”

With a hesitant sigh, Vince answers, “Yes.”

His smile growing wider, Alan says, his voice higher and softer, “I understand. A complete stranger arriving at such an inconvenient time and in such an inconvenient manner... I would have a hard time trusting him, as well. Very well. As you wish it, so shall it be.” With a graceful turn, he walks away, his posture and form different from a moment ago. Though wary of this subtle change in character, Vincent is also mesmerized, his heart having stopped briefly for reasons he cannot muster. Assuming it to be a psychosomatic reaction of some sort, he makes a mental reminder to ask Hartmann about it when he returns. Or any Medic. Anyone but Ooshiro.

Five minutes into the mission, and already, so much has gone horribly awry. RED had a powerful defense unit planned out, and with Hartmann reprising his former role as a Heavy, they are practically unstoppable. Meanwhile, with a weak offense and several barely competent rookies to keep track of, BLU is falling apart faster than a cannonball dropped from the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Everywhere, his fellow teammates are crying out for the Medic, who is nowhere in sight. With gritted teeth, the Scout ceases his actions and turns around to search for him.

Scouring through the sewers connecting the RED base to BLU's, Vincent checks every nook and cranny, in case the newbie turns out to be lost and overwhelmed by the area's many twists and turns. He eventually ends up in his own base, and finds Ooshiro huddled in a corner, shivering and bleeding from the shoulder. Judging by the bloodied bonesaw and the corpse lying next to him, he had recently undergone a deadly scuffle with the enemy Spy, an event not uncommon amongst Medics. As much as Vince wants to vent his frustrations on him, seeing the new Medic looking as hurt and scared as he is reminds him of his first day on the field, and all his anger is replaced by pity.

Holding out a hand, he helps the rookie up. “Rough day, huh?” Ooshiro nods. “Well, I know from Doc that being a Medic's never easy, 'specially with Spies on your tail. But for someone who's completely new to the job, you held yourself up pretty well.”

A timid smile lifting from behind his mask, he replies, “I knew this place was—as your people might call it—completely bonkers, but I never realized just how crazy it is. Assassins, death, mass destruction... It's just like...” His smile disappears, replaced by their usual cold expression; his eyes, however, tell a different story, glowing with a level of passion rivaling that of the old doctor. “But enough standing around. You need my help, is that not true?”

With Vincent's guidance, Ooshiro picks up the momentum, healing the Scout's wounds along the way, and eventually catches up to the rest of his injured teammates. Making a quick job of fixing up his mates, his Medigun becomes fully charged in seconds. Under Vince's orders, he follows after Pasha, in a team-up strategy the other mercs refer to as “pocketing”. Finding a moment to trigger the charge is tricky, not to mention tempting, but once they approach a corner that has been confirmed to host a sentry nest and a troupe of REDs hoping to ambush them, he chooses to activate the “Übercharge”, a surge of energy that envelopes both the wielder and his partner, protecting them both from harm as they charge into the fray. The effect does not last long, but in those eight seconds, the Medic and the Heavy have proven that they are a credit to the team and a powerful team in the making. In just a few moments, Ooshiro's contribution has turned the game on its head completely, resulting in a surprise victory for BLU.

Every mission after that is also met with an equal or greater amount of success, and by the end of the day, everybody at the barracks knows of Ooshiro's accomplishments. But Ooshiro, bashful as he is, denies his greatness and takes to his room to avoid the overwhelming levels of praise. Unfortunately for him, that peace will not last, as some has come knocking at the door.

“'Ey, Oshi! Mind if I come in?” The door opens, and a tanned, hairy face pokes through. “They're havin' a party downstairs, an' look—they're havin' cake!” He proudly shows off the slice of cake he's procured from said party. “I saved you a slice, if ya want some.”

Ooshiro tries to resist the urge, but his sweet tooth quickly takes over. “Y-yes, please.” As the hairy man hands him the plate, he thanks him. “Mundy-san, right? I have heard much about you. Mostly from Astor-chan. You are just as they say, and then some.” His eyes shimmer with modest glee.

Mortimer rubs the back of his neck. “I didn't do much t' earn it, but, uh, thanks. An' please, call me Mort.”

“But Mundy-sa—Mort, you've been terribly nice to me, even though we're practically strangers. Back on the battlefield, you protected me from that Spy that had been lurking me. And you sniped that Pyro with such ease, it's unbelievable.”

“Aw, gosh, that's just luck. I usually miss the head, or the body. But I did hit Doc in the arse once—boy, he's gonna get me for that one!” He guffaws at his own incompetence. “But seriously, you were simply amazing out there. I love Doc an' all, but you're way better at the Medic-ing thing.”

“It's nothing, really. I was just following orders—”

“I mean, it's not every day a rook gets a party fer 'im. And honestly...” Gently, he grabs hold of one of Ooshiro's hands—larger than his own, but not overly so, like Hartmann's, and a bit more delicate compared to his own—and squeezes it tightly. “You've inspired me. Not only to do my job better, but to be a better person. You're modest and nice and smart. I hardly know you a day, and yet, I feel like I know all about you.” Mort's expression softens, his eyes sad, despite his smile, as his grip on the Medic's hand tightens.

Ooshiro, on the other hand, hardens in mood, as he swipes his hand away from the Sniper. “Don't act like you know me. You know nothing at all—you've admitted so yourself. Why are all of you acting so nice to me?”

Hardly fazed at all, Mort pats a hand on the taller man's shoulder. “'Cause you're one of us. No matter where you're from or how crazy your life might've been, once you enter these barracks, you're not just a member of BLU, you're a part of the family. Plus, you really kicked RED's arses out there!” He slips out of the bedside. “Now, how 'bout we blow this pop stand an' go get us some real food?”

“More already? I can't. I need to watch my weight...” A sudden growl rumbles from his stomach, and he mutters submissively, “I suppose I could have a meal after all the work I have done today.”

Setting the cake aside for later, Ooshiro follows the Sniper as he drives him around town, finally stopping in front of an elaborate Eastern-style building, which—to him—looks more fitting for an ancient palace than a modern restaurant.  _Kanpai's?_  He is astonished by the amount of work that must have been put into setting up the place, as well as how Chinese-inspired the aesthetics appear to be, despite the name and menu being touted as broadly Asian. But most surprising is their waiter: a short, boyish ruffian, in contrast to the tall, sexy waitresses sauntering about from table to table.

“Nihao, Mort,” the waiter greets with a grin. “Congratulations on the win today. But let it be known, we will beat you next time!”

Mort chuckles. “Sure thing, mate. I'll do my best, too.”

Catching a glance at Ooshiro, he drops his notepad and jabs a finger at him in shock. “It's you! You're the one that stole our victory from us!”

Ooshiro blinks and stares at the tiny boy. “Wait. You're not the Soldier from RED, are you? The one that keeps flying and jumping all over the place? I never noticed until now, but you're so cute up close!” His eyes sparkle, entranced by the waiter-slash-Soldier's adorable appearance, until he realizes his mistake. “Oh, my apologies. I am Ooshiro Same. I will be taking over Hartmann-sensei's duties until further notice.”

“Hohojirozame?”

“No, Ooshiro Same. Western order.”

“Oh...” The waiter puffs up his chest and smirks cockily. “Well, anyhow. The name's Zhen Dou, third generation RED Soldier and future heir of this restaurant. Welcome to the club, Hohojirozame!” With a hearty grin, he slaps Ooshiro in the back, which the Medic answers with a punch in the face. Once he recovers, Zhen cries out, “What the heck was that for?”

Ooshiro's eyes are no longer sparkling, as his brows have furrowed deeply, creating a dark shadow underneath them. “I-I'm sorry... But you asked for it!” His anger reaching a boiling point, he rips off his surgeon's mask and scowls, revealing a mouthful of teeth sharpened to a fine point (assuming they are even real at all). Matching his abrupt mood swing, his voice has also done a 180, sounding rougher and more heavily accented, a far cry from the more sophisticated tones of his calmer self. “Listen up, Dou Boy! I may be a rookie, but I'm no amateur when it comes t' fightin'. That's why they called me Great White Shark—'cuz I'm king of the sea!” Calming down, he slips the mask back on and sits down again, glaring at Zhen. “You got off lightly, kid, but don't fuck with me again if you know what's good for you.”

Zhen, trembling yet impressed, cracks a smile and says, “Sure thing, Hohojiro-senpai.”

Mort is about to move in to defuse another potential threat, but seeing Ooshiro's pleased reaction convinces him otherwise. The Soldier takes their orders and skips off happily, further confounding Mort.

Shortly after Zhen's leaving, a dark-haired woman approaches their table. Like the waitresses, she is an attractive Asian woman in red, but her outfit differs from the rest. While the other women wear sexily cut cheongsam and sport simple hairstyles, this lady is draped in an elaborate, multilayer kimono, and her hair is tied in an unusual manner and adorned with a multitude of decorative hair sticks. “Konnichiwa, members of BLU,” the lady says, her accent visible but not too heavily layered. Turning her attention to Ooshiro, she bows deeply, her movements minimal but graceful. “Same-san, is it? I do apologize for my son's behavior. He can be an insolent child at times.”

The shimmer returning to the Medic's eyes, he answers, “It's no problem. It is I who should apologize. I just hope he's not too scared of me now.”

“Oh, far from it, I believe. I think he found someone to look up to.” Her cheeks turn a bright pink, and she starts squeezing her hands together, her fingers wriggling and twitching. “Um, I hope it's not an inconvenience for you... But I was wondering if maybe... I can get Same Tora's autograph...?”

He looks at her, surprised, but lightens up anyway. “Of course. I shall write to my family and request for autographs from all of them.” From his coat pocket, he whips out a postcard and pen. “Who should I make it out to?”

“H-Haruka Dou. Er, Dou Haruka. Whichever works for you.”

Scribbling down the name in a message, he mutters, “Haruka... Such a lovely name.” He slips the postcard and pen back into his pocket. “All right. I shall send it out as soon as possible. It's been wonderful meeting you.”

“Nonono, thank you! I hope you enjoy your stay here.” Haruka bows and walks off, suppressing her urge to gush and squeal until she reaches the back door, where she lets it all out.

After Haruka exits, Zhen reenters the main floor, but remains just long enough to serve Mort and Ooshiro their food. Once they're alone again, Ooshiro cracks under the pressure and starts explaining. “I'm sorry you had to witness such unruly behavior from me. Personally, I'm ashamed of myself. As a child from an upper-class family, I should be behaving more respectfully. But the sad truth is, I am, as you Westerners might call it, the 'black sheep' of my family. My brothers, my father, and every man before and after them are renowned athletes. Every man except myself. I took to training with my father long ago, but once my passion for science and medicine took hold of me, I quit training and devoted myself to becoming a doctor. I was considered a prodigy, passed all my classes with flying colors. I even got my doctorate just a few years ago. But under that mask of academic and social perfection, I was a ruffian to the core. Though I no longer devoted myself to athletic sports, when it comes to street fighting, I was unstoppable. None of the other gangs messed with us as long as I was around.

“Over time, the efforts of keeping up my double life took a toll on me. I became more and more irritable, and my memory would get hazy during stressful moments. I began to wonder if I was losing my mind. Even though I knew the doctor and the delinquent were—are—the same person, they felt so different, I almost began to believe they were two complete individuals. Because people in my homeland would mispronounce my name, I tend to be wary with revealing it.”

“Y'mean Hoho-somethin', right?”

“Hohojirozame. It means 'great white shark' in my native tongue, and it was also the nickname I received back when I was still in the gang. Though it's pronounced differently from my real name, they're both read in a manner that can lead to a lot of blunders. The only way to really avoid the issue is to introduce myself in Eastern order, but it never sounded right to me.”

Mortimer cups his chin, tapping it with his thumb, as the cogs in his head start to turn. “If that's the problem, then why don't you just get a new nickname?”

“A new nickname? Well, I suppose I can try...”

“How 'bout Sammy? It sounds like yer last name, but different, too.”

“S-Sammy? It sounds awfully silly, but it'll do for now. Thank you, Mundy-san.”

He scratches the back of his head and grins sheepishly. “Aw, it's nothing. Jus' call me Mort. That's what everybody calls me, anyways.”

“All right... Mort.” Ooshiro pauses to look down at the steak he ordered, then at the mountain of food Mort ordered. “Erm, may I ask who will be the one paying?”


	23. Pride and Prejudice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of the Badlands Arc.

In a dark, cramped room far removed from the rest of the barracks, the only sounds that can be heard are the clattering of keys from a typewriter. The only source of light comes from a lamp shining down on the desk's surface. Two gloved hands press rapidly on the keys, releasing line after line of information in text form. The message being typed out looks like complete nonsense, but only through a patient and knowledgeable mind can the true meaning be dissected. The message complete, the hands fold up the paper three times and hide it in their body's outfit. If the mission goes over well, the target will fall right into their hands.

Early the next morning, Alan wakes up and stretches, feeling as bright and sunny as the daylight star outside. For the first time in what feels like ages, he had a dream that did not involve fires or creeping hands of darkness. Instead, he dreamed about himself and Mort sitting under a tree in a field of flowers, enjoying a delicious lunch together before it took a rough and rather sexy turn. His cheeks flush a hot pink as he recalls the fictional event, and eagerly scribbles it down, transferring his imagination into a more family-friendly tale.  _Anonyme and Archer had picnic under the roseberry tree, when all of a sudden, Archer leaned forward to kiss Anonyme..._

_Wait a minute!_  Alan's hands, stiff from shock, drops his pen and notebook on his bed.  _I haven't kissed Mort once since we met. We hardly even talk anymore. Does that mean... we are never meant to be?_ More than any pain he's suffered on the battlefield or from his illness, Alan's heart aches greatly at this epiphany.

Fists clenched, he slams them down on the mattress.  _No! I won't let this happen. I will repair this loosening bond between us. I will make him love me again. Mortimer Jem Mundy, your heart will belong to me!_

Climbing down the ladder, Alan is surprised to find that Mortimer is not resting in his usual spot. He looks out the window to the parking lot, but the Sniper's van is nowhere in sight. Disappointed, he starts to make way for the door when it opens. “Astor-chan, good morning,” Ooshiro says as he enters the room. “Mort woke up rather early, so I sent him to the pharmacy to pick up some things. By the way, how are you this fine morning?”

Despite his disappointment from Mort's absence, the Spy cannot help but feel comforted by Ooshiro's presence. “Tres bien, Monsieur Same. Is zhere anyzhing you need me for?”

“Actually, I have read in your records that you have problems with breathing and digesting food, and occasionally faint in the middle of strenuous activity. If you don't mind, I wish to discuss this further with you, and maybe see if I can find a solution. I'm a trained professional, so you can trust me.” His eyes smile modestly.

For the next hour, Alan discusses his physical symptoms to the Medic, who writes notes and only speaks up to ask questions. When the subject turns to his fainting habit, the atmosphere turns heavy. “Whenever I black out, occasionally, I would feel a slight sense of consciousness, as if my body's become independent of my thought. I know it's weird, but sometimes I wonder if I ever was completely unconscious in zhe first place.”

Ooshiro stops writing and puts his utensils down. “Back in Japan, I had a friend who used to tell me the same thing. One minute, he would feel just fine, but the next, his mind would go blank, as if it had gone on auto-pilot. He would not remember what happened during that moment, but once he regained consciousness, his friends would fear him, and his family would shun him for things he could not control. After a while, he began to question himself, who he was. For years, he lived a double life, and he was not even aware of it until things got really bad. But once he discovered the root of his problem, he learned to accept it, and learned to gain control over it. It still happens from time to time, but it's not as detrimental as it once was. I cannot guarantee the results will be the same, but perhaps if you dig a little deeper, you might learn to discover yourself as a person.”

_Dig a little deeper..._  “That's it! Merci, Monsieur Same.” Alan grabs Ooshiro's hands and shakes them fervently before running out of the office.  _Perhaps_ , he muses,  _if I get to the root of my problems, I can make it up to Mort in the long run. After all, he's the only friend I have. Only... how would I do that?_

Before Alan can conjure up any plans, the PA speakers blare out, with Vincent's voice echoing through the halls. “Testing, testing. Can everybody hear me? Er, I suppose so. Well, anyway.” He clears his throat and continues, sounding more authoritative. “Attention, everyone. I've received an urgent message from the pipeline; they're in dire need of backup. Alan, Ooshiro, Mortimer, get ready and meet me at the train station in thirty minutes. Over and out.”

The aforementioned trio meet up later in front of the train station, where Vince has waited since shortly after making his announcement. After scolding them for arriving a moment too late, he escorts them into the train car, where he explains the mission in depth. “At thirteen-hundred hours, an inventory shipment will arrive at the Badlands fort via the pipeline pathway. Based on those conditions, we should be expecting a team of REDs coming from The Well or Dustbowl, since they're closer to our destination. The reason we're being summoned is because our base in Teufort is starting to run low on supplies, on top of Badlands's BLU team being shorthanded at the moment. By the end of the weekend, we'll be splitting our winnings with our teammates in the base over there, so try to get along.”

Softening up, he uncrosses his arms and stands up from his seat. “It'll be a while until we arrive, so in the meantime, you're welcome to look around. By the way...” He shuffles through the duffel bag beside him and digs out a nicely packaged sandwich, which he hands to Alan. “You haven't had lunch yet, have you? You can have this. I'll be back in a bit.” He smiles awkwardly, then becomes serious again as he turns to Ooshiro. “I also wish to speak to you in the meantime.” With a blink and a slight nod, the Medic complies and follows the Scout towards the back exit.

Mort, staring out the window, watches in awe as the mountain range rushes by in a blur of brown and orange. “This is bloody aces! I've never been on a train before. I love how everything's just all like 'VOOSH', like we're in a race or somethin'.”

Alan chuckles. “Amazing view, isn't it? I used to ride on trains quite often, but zhis is zhe first time in a while. Not zhat zhere's much to look at.”

“Where I'm from, there's not much of anything,” the bushman says nonchalantly. “Jus' sheep an' rocks an' dry grass, an'—”

“Oh! You raised sheep?”

“Yeah, but they weren't mine. Joey's dad owned a bunch of 'em, though. My dad grows crops an' flowers—or tries to, anyway. He wouldn't let us have any, fer some reason.”

“Because you screw zhem, is zhat right?”

Flustered, Mort blurts out, “I was young an' stupid an' bored! Well, anyways, Dad told me I wasn't cut out fer animals, so we never had any. He tried t' get me into other things, like gardening an' rugby, but I sucked balls at those, so I ran off.” He turns away, a solemn look in his eyes. “I couldn't pass eighth grade. I can hardly read, let alone become a doctor. Even as a sniper, I'm horrible. What the hell can I do?”

Feeling his anger rise, Alan pins Mort down against the back of his seat. “Lots of things! You may not be zhe best sniper, or zhe most punctual or zhe brightest, but you've got zhe biggest heart of anybody I know, and you're capable of lots of things. Things zhat not even I can do. Be strong, Mortimer Mundy. Don't you ever say zhat kind of crap ever again!”

As he calls the Sniper out, the Spy can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes. Tears which are wiped away by a pair of tanned fingers, which then brush against his cheeks before resting on his shoulders. Staring down, he can see a gentle smile form on Mortimer's lips. “Alright. I promise. Just don't start crying again. You're prettier when you smile.” Hearing what he just said, it takes a great deal of willpower not to cry, his heart overflowing with all sorts of emotions. While their arms are locked as they are, they move in closer, forming a warm, intimate embrace. Which is then interrupted by Mort saying, “Say, ya gonna eat that?”

Alan, thrown off guard, he lets go of Mort and starts unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite from it. It is a simple ham and cheese sandwich, with a bit of mayonnaise in the bread, but to someone who has hardly eaten that morning, it tastes like heaven. A strange aftertaste lingers in his taste buds, but he passes it off as an obscure seasoning and swallows. Taking another bite, Alan can feel the lump in his throat rising, but he continues on anyway. As he consumes the sandwich little by little, the feeling gradually fades away, until he hardly even notices it anymore. After finishing it off, his stomach aches in discomfort, and his head throbs in pain, but he is proud of his achievement, however minor it may seem to everybody else around him. Looking over, he notices Mort's eyes are unusually wide. “Al, that's the most I've seen you eat since, well, ever! You should do that more often.”

“Eh, do what more often?”

Eying him up and down, Mort mutters, “Ya know, you have a really nice figure. But it'd look even nicer if you filled out a bit more.”

Alan isn't even sure how to answer to this. While he is aware of how skinny he is, he never had anyone comment on it until now. Because Spies are built for stealth and infiltration, it only seems natural that they would be svelte as they are; Alan had never met a Spy with even an ounce of body fat, at least not since his early days at the academy. So to hear someone suggesting such a thing is unusual.  _Could it be... Mort's worried about my well-being? Well, he said I'd look nicer if I filled out a bit. But he likes my figure; is that a good thing?_  “Th-thank you. I know it sounds weird, but eating zhat sandwich without throwing up, it feels good. I actually can't wait for lunch.”

“Neither can I. I'm getting hungry again. Argh, why can't lunch come sooner?” He pouts childishly, then perks up immediately after. “Say, wanna check around? I bet there's all kindsa cool stuff around here.” Seeing Mort's excited, puppy-like expression, Alan cannot help but agree.

Meanwhile, in an isolated seat in the back of an adjacent car, Vincent and Ooshiro are not faring so well. “I take it you do not trust me, is that correct?”

“Not entirely. You are still new, after all. But it's not because of you personally. It's more what brought you here that I have issues with. I know Auto-Balance orders tend to be randomized, but somehow, I can't help but feel like it's rigged somehow. You said so yourself: RED wanted Hartmann. But why him, of all people?”  _What use could they have for him now? What are they looking to get out of him?_

“I hear he has had years of experience, far more than most everybody at the Teufort barracks. Perhaps they are looking for information. I have seen the files he has in his office; with such crucial information at hand, it's no surprise they would want it.”

“Hey, Ooshiro, how good is your memory?”

“M-my memory? It tends to waver. Quite terrible, really. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just curious.” They sit in awkward silence for a long while.

“Sorry to intrude, but what are your feelings towards Astor-chan?”

Vince stutters, “I, er, well, he's alright, I suppose. He doesn't seem like a bad person at all. I mean, he's graceful and clean-cut and adorable in an eccentric way...”

“Do you like Astor-chan?”

“What? Not in  _that_  way!” He rubs the back of his neck as he mutters, “You're sounding just like Hartmann.”

“But you like him, do you not? I see the way you look at him. You may not like him in 'that' way, but you seem to like him, nonetheless.”

“Well, lately, when I'm around him, my body starts acting strange. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack at one point. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I  _want_  to be with him. Maybe not in an intimate way, like Doc does with other women, but in a friendly sort of way, I suppose. Ooshiro... am I in love?”

“Well, there's many kinds of love. Family love, intimate love, even innocent love like yours.” Losing track of his train of thought, he says, “I'm sorry, but I am not too good with this subject. But I will say this: if you care about Astor-chan as much as you say you do, then I think it's best if you tell him yourself.”

Vincent's stomach starts feeling that tangled-up ache upon hearing that. “I should check up on him. I can't trust Mort when food is involved.” He stands up and walks out of the car, leaving Ooshiro in the dust. With him out of sight, he can focus on what's more important—namely, the mission, and ensuring the well-being of his teammates are optimal to approach it. As he is about to return, his stomach becomes more knotted with each step; his shoulders tense, and his blood curdles. He felt this ominous sensation before, hundreds of times over. But this time is different. Yet somehow, familiar.

_THUD!_

_What was that?_  Vince rushes into action as the muffled noise continues to ring out above him. Heading towards the passenger rear, he climbs up the ladder to the roof of the car. His legs tremble as he attempts to retain his balance whilst atop of the speeding train. The perpetrator of the noise—an enemy Scout, based on the outfit—is not far ahead. “Stop right there!”

The perpetrator turns around and flashes a cold grin as they brandish a sharp cleaver. “Guten tag, Wimpcent. I've heard about your little journey to Badlands and thought I'd tag along. Especially after finding out who your companions are; Teufort's no fun without Mortimer and his little Spy friend. So tell me: how's life without the old man? Can't imagine you'd fare well without your precious godfather.”

“I'm doing just fine without him,” Vince says with gritted teeth. “I'll win this mission, and prove to Doc and all of you at RED that I am a good leader.”

“Right. Like a bunch of rookies'll take orders from a control freak like you. 'Specially that Medic... er, what's his name? Hohojirozame, right? Dou Boy talks 'bout him like he's some hot shot, but Mask-Face looks kinda shady, if you ask me. But what can I say? I'm just a psycho with a chip on my shoulder.” Valdo is about to say more, but bites his tongue the second he hears a gun click. With a shrug, he slips his cleaver away. “I see. Well, best I be going. Da svidanya, big brother.” He takes a step towards the edge as gravity take over, pushing him off and letting his body get tangled up and crushed under the wheels of the vehicle. Vincent, falling to his knees, can only scream and cry out for his brother.

After recovering from the initial shock, Vince's heart has grown numb, as his body guides his zombified self back to his seat. He only manages to snap out of it upon hearing Alan's voice. “Vinci? You look a little pale. Are you hungry?” Staring down at the table, covered with platefuls of food, he wonders what time it is. “Mort ordered lunch for us. Don't worry about it; it's all on his tab.”

The Scout reluctantly gives himself some mashed potatoes and chicken, then glances over at the bushman, noticing that he hasn't taken a single bite. “Don't worry 'bout me, mate,” says Mort. “I already ate. 'Sides, Al's built up quite an appetite, all of a sudden.” Vince alternates between Alan and Mort, becoming more confounded by the sudden reversal in roles. “Say, where's Sammy, anyways? Wasn't he with you?”

“Oh, he had to do something, so we parted ways. Alan, are you sure you're all right? You two didn't switch bodies or anything when I was out, did you?”

Alan, in the midst of eating, puts down his fork and raises a brow. “Non. I just ate zhe sandwich and started feeling hungry all of a sudden. I guess it was simply zhat delicious!” Vince sighs in relief; he doesn't want to admit right then and there that he made the sandwich, nor that he added an appetite stimulant he found in Hartmann's medicine cabinet. “But I really have to thank you two. For years, I fell sick so often, I could hardly eat anything since zhen. But now, I feel like I can eat anything and everything.” Right after he says this, he groans and clutches his stomach. “Well, maybe not quite everything.”

Vince takes away Alan's meal and starts finishing it off for him. “Try not to overdo it, or you'll get sick again. But I'm proud of you. You've overcome your fear of food, and you can enjoy it again. I have to say, I love... er, I appreciate it.”

“Truer words couldn't have been spoken,” Mort intercedes. “At this rate, Al would look super-sexy in no time!” Vince almost chokes on his food upon hearing that comment.

“You seem to be having fun. Hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Ooshiro bows in apology and takes his seat. “Funny thing happened on the way here. I bumped into some men in red. One of them looked like you, Vincent.”

Losing his grip, the Scout's fork clatters on the plate. “Valdo? You saw him?”

“Hai. Right after you left, he walked in and asked me some questions. I thought it impolite to refuse, so I told him about you guys being on board. W-was that a bad thing?”

“No. Not at all. He would've known about us eventually.” Pause. “You said you bumped into  _some men_. Did you see anybody else?”

“Just the old Medic from the last mission. We didn't talk much, but he told me to give you this.” Ooshiro takes out a folded slip of paper from within the confines of his coat and hands it to Mortimer. “I'm not sure what it says, but please be careful.”

Mort unfolds the paper and reads it. As his brain takes in the information, his brows furrow, his eyes sharpened to a glare. “No worries, mate.” With a smile, he crumbles up the paper with his two hands and shoves it into his vest pocket. “'S no biggie, anyways.” Everyone can see the truth, but they decide not to argue with him.

They eat and sit in silence until the train finally arrives at its destination. After they get off, Ooshiro says he has something to do and splits. Impatient, Alan makes up a flimsy excuse and follows after him. Activating his cloaking device, the Spy tracks down the novice Medic into the postal office, currently vacant save for them and a fat, gracefully aged man in red and white.

“Salutations, Herr Hoho. Did you give him zhe note?”

Ooshiro pulls down the surgeon's mask. “Yeah. Shiro's pretty dense, spillin' the beans in front of his pals, though. 'F it were me, I'd do it where no one's watchin', take 'em by surprise. But then, I ain't no one's messenger boy. What's the big deal with 'im, anyway? He's just some smelly ol' mutt from outta town.”

“Zhat mutt, my boy, is zhe key ingredient in my plan. He may not look like much, but he holds a great power vithin him. Ve need to give him time. Vatch him until zhen.”

“I thought I told you, I ain't your dog, you—”

“I vas talking to der Spion over zhere.” The elder's eyes turn their attention to the far corner, where Alan has been watching from a distance. “You can come out, Anonyme. I von't bite.”

Defeated, Alan decloaks, appearing before the two doctors. “How did you know I was zhere? And who's zhis 'Anonyme' person?”

The old Medic frowns deeply. “Oh, dear. It seems ve have a slight problem. Take care of him, vill you?”

Cracking his knuckles, Hohojirozame gladly does as he's told. The Spy's vision goes black, as his consciousness—and the pain from the blow to his head—fades. Gradually, the pain returns, but his state of mind is still lost. Instead, his psyche has changed, the voices in his head reflecting not his own thoughts, but those of a broken young girl with nothing to her name. When he—or she—wakes up, she groans and puts her hand to the bump on her head. “W-what happened? Why did you summon me so?”

“Alan has learned somezhing he shouldn't have. You must take over his body, to keep him in his place. Vatch over Mortimer Mundy, observe his every move vith great detail. Stay close to him at all times. Do not let him leave your sights. Understand, Nameless One?”

Using Alan's voice, Anonyme replies, “Yes, Führer Alterheim.”


	24. Role Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the Badlands Arc.

As Alan is trailing Ooshiro, Vincent and Mortimer are left to wait until their return. Five minutes later, Mort's decides he has enough of doing nothing and heads over to the postal room, where he finds Ooshiro and Dante. “Ah. Salut, Herr Mundy. Vhat a pleasure to meet you again. I vas just chatting vith Herr Same vhen you arrived. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall take my leave now.” The RED Medic walks up to the Sniper and inspects him up and down. “My, my. You really are your father's son, aren't you?” Grabbing ahold of his chin, he stares deep into his eyes. “But your eyes are just like Mutter's. Quite a handsome fellow, if I say so myself.” He smiles and—in a blink—is gone.

“Bloke's a few eggs short of a basket,” Mort mutters as he scratches his head. “Oi, Sammy, have ya seen Al?”

Ooshiro, who is slipping a postcard and some letters into a mailbox, stops and blinks. “I'm not sure. I just remember leaving you guys and suddenly being here. I hope nothing bad has happened on the way here.”

“Well, maybe Al's just gone to the dunny. He'll be back soon. Hey, what's that?” He points at one of the letters, with an address written in strange symbols.

“These? I'm sending letters to my family back in Japan. My brothers and sisters have grown up and—as you would call it—'left the nest', so I have to write lots of letters to contact them all. It'd be easier to simply send them to my father's home, but...” He trails off, too distressed to speak further of it. “We should head back. Vincent and Astor-chan are probably waiting for us.”

They return to the main lobby, where Vince and Alan have been sitting and waiting impatiently. Alan runs up to Mort and, without warning, embraces him tightly. “Mortimer, where were you? I came back and zhen you were gone. And now Vinci's mad, shame on you!”

“It's all right,” Vince says, surprisingly calm. “You two came back safely, that's what matters most. Now that we're together, we should head over to the base.”

The base is not very far from the train station, located in a far-off lot closed off to town residents, and is relatively small, compared to Teufort. However, the mercs working with them are friendly, especially the Spy, a thin, dark-haired woman whose face reveals her many years of experience, wisdom, and stresses. “Hello, Vincent. It's been a while, hasn't it? And you've brought friends.”

“Y-yes. Ellen, this is Mortimer Mundy, Ooshiro Same, and Alan Astor. I brought them over to help us out. Guys, this is Ellen Etranger.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Her gaze falls on the young Spy, and she swiftly approaches him. “My, aren't you a precious little thing! You remind me of myself when I was a little girl.” She turns back to Vincent. “Frankly, I was expecting a little bit more firepower when I heard you were coming. But I suppose even with this group, we can find a way to balance the playing field. Little Astor will take over Spy duties, and I'll team up with Mr. Sammy. As for Mundy...” She glances down at the Sniper's thick, stumpy legs. “How fast can you run?”

With the general strategy laid out, the team heads into the locker rooms to change and load up. At the lady Spy's suggestion, Mortimer has set aside his knife and sniper rifle for smaller, lighter guns and a baseball bat. Meanwhile, Ellen herself has ditched her suit jacket to don a white lab coat, indicative of a Medic. Apprehensive about the sudden class changes, Vincent walks over and taps her on the shoulder. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Mort's never done anything like this before.”

“I haven't a clue, but I've got a good feeling about this,” she says as she puts one hand on his shoulder. “You're gonna have to trust me, Kaninchen.”

The Scout, having no other choice, agrees to put his trust in her judgment, but the lump in his throat still remains. With the rearrangement set in place, the team now consists of: two Scouts, two Medics, one Spy, one Demoman, a Pyro, a Soldier, and a Heavy. Not exactly Vince's idea of a perfect team, but with the team as support-heavy as it was, perhaps this can be considered an improvement. Perhaps.

As the gates fly open and the teams make a mad dash for the checkpoint on the railway, he sets his priorities on his goal: protecting the checkpoint from danger. Gripping his pistol, he aims and fires at the approaching Soldiers, careful not to run into the RED sentry in the process. As he fends off the front lines, his peripheral vision catches a view of the sentry deconstructing itself, folding and compressing itself back into its basest form. He is about to pick off the Engineer running to rebuild its beloved machine when they suddenly collapse, a knife stuck to their back. In all his years of working at BLU, never has Vince seen such precise and elegant work coming from a Spy. He would have been able to appreciate it for much longer, had the enemy Spy not already made quick work of him.

After being transported back via ReSyst, the Scout reenters the battlefield, whipping out his scattergun. But his focus is lost, as his aim becomes less accurate by the second. Only when he spots the RED Heavy mowing down his allies does he recover; a few stray bullets hit his leg in his rush to escape the fury. Cautiously approaching the Heavy, he is about to ambush them when the larger man suddenly falls, followed by the Medic following him. Fleeing the scene is Mortimer, scattergun in hand. Vince, resolved not to get distracted again, continues on towards the checkpoint, dodging Sniper shots and projectiles while trampling over the glowing red dot repeatedly until it finally registers his alliance. With the help of his teammates, his quick foot movements have given the BLU team a last-minute victory.

Later that afternoon, after the newly-won earnings have been evenly split and set to ship, the team meets up in the barracks for an extravagant celebratory feast. While munching on a chicken salad, Vince notices the rookie Spy has been eating more than usual, even without Mort's encouragement. The way he shovels down food without thought comes across as rather out-of-character, almost as if he is not himself. But then, maybe he's beginning to show his true colors. Whatever the case, Vince has a hard time keeping his eyes off of him.

“Vincent, ma boi!” Ellen pops out of nowhere to sit next to him. “I have to admit, you have a great eye for recruiting. Must have gotten it from Hartmann, hmm?”

“Me? It's not that I recruited them for any good reason. I just wanted to prove I could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Well, lead a good team, I guess. I mean, my team won the other day, but I owe that to Ooshiro. I guess I wanted to make sure that last victory wasn't just a fluke or something.” Fiddling with his hands, he says, “To be honest, I'm not sure if our victory had anything to do with me.”

“I'll admit, you did seem kind of off your game. Not that I would know how you usually play, considering it's been so long since we last worked together. But the fact remains that you chose rookies with so much potential and versatility, it's amazing. Looks like my little test turned out pretty well.”

“'Test'? Is that why you had Mort change classes out of the blue? For some stupid experiment?”

“Yes, but that's not the only reason. Right from the start, I knew Mort was different. Being a Spy, I have to have good instincts. And my instincts were telling me that he's being severely underused, talent-wise. Sure, he's not the fastest, but he's got good agility and jumping ability. Not to mention he can take a Heavy head-on and live. By putting him on the front lines, I've activated some long-dormant survival instincts, and it seems to have worked.”

Thinking long and hard in silence, Vince's brain starts conjuring up some questions. “So, if Mort really is more fit to be a Scout, then should I not have him snipe anymore?”

“Not necessarily. The fact that he can snipe  _and_  run fast are why he's so unique. My suggestion: train him to be the best of both worlds. Snipers are a useful asset to any team, but there's too many of them and not enough demand. Scouts, on the other hand, are more versatile and can help balance out a team lacking in muscle, even if they're a bit lacking in firepower compared to the big boys. I'm a Spy first and foremost, but I've enough knowledge and skill to pass off as a Medic when my team needs me most. That's why I'm pushing you to stretch out of your comfort zone.”

Vince stares at the Sniper and Spy, then turns back to Ellen. “But what about me? Should I really try? What if I mess up?”

“Bunny, you've messed up plenty of times before, yet you pick yourself up and keep trying 'til you succeed. That's what I like about you. Tell you what, why don't you two train together?”

“Train? You mean, I teach Mort how to be a Scout and—”

“—and he will teach you how to be a Sniper. I think it'll be perfect. You trust him, don't you? So there's no reason why you shouldn't try. And hey, it's definitely easier than being a Spy, lemme tell ya.”

“Now that you mention Spies, there's actually something I want to ask you about...”

Just then, collective gasps echo out as plates clatter. Alan, no longer seated, lies unconscious and bloated on the floor. Immediately, Vince stands, but stops as soon as he sees Mortimer picking him up and dragging him out of the room, with Ellen at his tail. After a moment's hesitation, he follows after them, in the hopes of providing moral support—and, if possible, a confession. Unfortunately, he and Mort have been locked out of the office, left to brood over the young Spy's fate.

“Alan?” Ellen nudges at his shoulder until he wakes up. “Are you all right?”

“Doing just fine, Mother,” Alan replies with a forced smile. “I simply overate. It's strange, these sudden cravings. I wonder if I have been drugged somehow.”

Recognizing the sudden lack of natural expression, her eyes widen. “A-Anonyme? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is I.”

“I cannot believe it. After all these years... to meet again like this. How has Father been?”

“He prefers being called 'Master Petrinni', but he is fine as well. He and Der Führer have recently begun collaborating, despite their rivalry. They seem to have taken advantage of Ooshiro Same's split personality and are using him for intelligence. My current mission is to take Alan's guise temporarily and spy on Mortimer Mundy.”

She sits quietly, biting her lip and furrowing her brow as she listens. “Mortimer Mundy? What use would he have for him? I mean, sure, he has potential, but he's a little... er, well, he's a few sheep short of a station, or whatever they say down there.”

“I don't believe his intelligence has anything to do with it,” Anonyme says, taking offense. “Mortimer Mundy is able-bodied, strong-willed, and very reputable within his team, regardless of his actual skill level in battle. And he's kind and optimistic, and...” Feeling a rush of blood flooding to their cheeks, they stop.

“Ah, you like him, dontcha? Well, if that's what floats your boat, I won't stop you. Just don't get too stalker-ish, you hear me? This is not just me talking Spy-to-Spy, I'm telling you this as your mother.”

“But Mother, Der Führer—”

“I don't care if it's the Queen of England that gave you the orders. You're in  _my_ base now, so you listen to  _me!_ ”

Anonyme, mouth still agape from their last attempt to speak, shrinks and looks away. “Yes, ma'am,” they say with a timid voice.

“Not even bothering to fight back? Luca really has taught you well.”  _Perhaps a little_ too  _well,_  she mutters to herself. “You feeling better?” Anonyme nods, and Ellen kisses them on the forehead. “Good night, sweetie.” In an instant, Anonyme is out like a light.

Shortly afterwards, Alan wakes up, wondering what happened when his head starts throbbing. Looking around, he recognizes the bland furnishings and trademark tools of the trade and concludes that he fell unconscious for some unknown span of time and was resting in the doctor's office. Not Hartmann's, he has to remind himself, but another BLU, Ellen Etranger.  _Speaking of which, where is that woman?_  His eyes lay on the file cabinet in the corner, and a wide, catlike grin forms from his lips. “Since I'm here, it wouldn't hurt to do a little bit of snooping about.”

While Alan does exactly that, Ellen returns to show his friends around the barracks and to their rooms, and leaves them to their business. Then Vincent starts assigning roommates: Mort will be sleeping with Ooshiro, while Alan shares a room with the Scout himself. Mort protests, creating an argument that dissipates only upon the Spy's return. Luck is not by the Scout's side, nor is it on Alan's. For all their bickering, Ooshiro ends up with the guest of honor.

“Sorry you have to deal with that,” Ooshiro says with a pang of guilt. “But I believe this arrangement will help Mort and Vincent to make amends.” He casually ignores the muffled bickering from the next room over and continues undressing.

“I hope so.” Alan winces at the sound of some unknown object being thrown at the wall. At least, he hopes it's an object. He strips his layers of clothing and slips on a rather girlish-looking nightgown. But before he can reach the bunk ladder, Ooshiro steps in front of him.

“You're feeling unwell, aren't you? You did have a large meal earlier.” Noting the baffled look on the Spy's face, he bites his tongue, then climbs up the ladder and crawls into bed. “Uh, rest well, Astor-chan. Oyasuminasai!”

Flopping himself on the bottom bunk, Alan closes his eyes and starts reeling his brain, recalling the events of the day. According to Ooshiro, he overate, which would explain the bloated, heavy feeling and his ending up in the office. But what else happened? Why were Vince and Mort fighting over him?  _Could they be fighting over_ me? He blushes at the thought of being the object of affection for not one, but two men (and perhaps a third, if Ooshiro's gentlemanly behavior isn't restricted solely to him). _Though not being able to remember anything that happened today is a bit of a problem. Ah, well. I'll just ask Mort in the morning._  Flushed with satisfaction, he drifts off into Slumberland.


	25. Yamato Nadeshiko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains implied physical/sexual assault and hurt/comfort elements.

Throughout the night, Alan tosses and turns, disturbed by the fantasies racing through his mind.

_He is back in the hospital room from his recurring nightmares, feeling much smaller and yet heavier than usual, and completely naked. Again, he is lured by music, an arrangement of strings and a chorus of voices that wail like angels, and he heads towards the door, a wave of dread clouding his judgment. As he twists the knob and slowly pulls it back, a strip of light pierces through the dark room, expanding as he pulls the door back further._

_The door finally opens, revealing an empty space of white. The chorus dies down, a flock of doves fluttering away in Alan's presence, yet the strings continue to play. With every step, the whiteness disappears, replaced by splashes of color, patches of new ground. Halfway down his trek, Alan turns, and recognizes the newly created environment as a hallway from the Teufort barracks—familiar, yet built in a way to appear uncomfortably new. He looks ahead, and finds himself face-to-face with a door: wooden, marred with numerous scratches. The Spy feels something warm and wet beneath him, and, in a moment of temptation, looks down. From the crack beneath the door, a pool of blood pours out, spreading and set to consume the entirety of the hall, drowning Alan. Panicking, Alan opens the door and rushes through, disappearing into the silent darkness._

_He blinks twice, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Gradually, the new room reveals itself. The room is a spitting image of the office he found himself in just recently, yet it appears corrupted, somehow. He realizes why as the room lightens up: the floors, strangely soft, have blood seeping through its pores; beaten, barely recognizable corpses hang from the ceiling, strapped there by their own trails of organs; and the walls—he averts his gaze in disgust—are fleshy and pulsing in a rhythmic motion, as if the office is a live, sentient being. Alan desires nothing more now than to escape, but the door has become inaccessible, the flesh from the walls creeping over it like cobwebs._

_“Scared, mein Freundin?” Alan turns around. Suddenly, the scenery makes sense: the corpses hanging from his ceiling belong to his allies, the people he's met since he came to Teufort. On the opposite end of the room, sitting on a makeshift throne of wood, metal, and the surrounding flesh, is Mort's zombified self, accompanied by Dante standing by. “Don't be. Zhis is simply your innermost fears manifesting zhemselves.” As he says this, he lays a hand on one of Mort's, which—along with the rest of his limbs—is slowly becoming one with the flesh of the surrounding throne. “Your fears of vhat might come true—if zhey haven't already.”_

_“Let go of Mort, you freak!” Alan, suddenly equipped with his butterfly knife, starts running towards the throne, but is restrained by fleshy hands emerging from the ground._

_“But Frau Astor, who really is the freak here? Me... or you?” The surrounding corpses writhe and mutate, transforming into full-length mirrors. Within every reflection—regardless of whether the mirror is actually facing their target or not—is the Spy, each one different, whether in outfit, or face, or gender. But the one closest to him—the one transformed from the flesh of the largest corpse—is dressed in a mask, leggings, and tunic, looking every bit like the fairy from the stories he wrote for himself. Unlike the other reflections, this one copies his every move, resembling him in all but expression, of which it has none. “I vould suggest you reconsider your comment, mein Frau. Unless you vant your little friend here to suffer.” Dante embraces Mort as the flesh from the throne encroaches and becomes one with the Sniper's, bringing him to life, screaming in pain. “Either vay, it vill all come back to you, Anonyme.” The RED Medic smiles warmly as his victim's screams drown out all sense of thought._

Alan shoots straight up, bumping his head against the bottom of the top bunk in the process. Despite the immense stuffiness and warmth of the bedroom, his body starts shaking uncontrollably. The only thing that brings him back to Earth is Ooshiro's voice calling his name. “Ohayo, Astor-chan. Are you feeling well? You're shivering.”

Wrapping the blanket around himself, Alan replies, “Y-yes. Just... nightmare. I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay.” The awkward silence between them grows thick, as Ooshiro's dark eyes peer around in search of a change of subject. “Would you like something to eat? I can bring some over, if you are not feeling well.” The Spy nods, and his eyes glisten as he sets off for the mess hall, returning moments later with a tray full of food. “I wasn't sure what to get you, so I just brought as much as I could carry.” Ooshiro offers the French toast, which the Spy takes. Neither of them talks as they eat, creating even greater tension until the Medic finally speaks up. “I wonder if Vincent and Mort are faring well. They don't appear to like each other.”

“You're wrong. Zhey're actually pretty close. Which is why zheir arguments are zhat much more heated.” When Ooshiro asks why, Alan answers, “Well, sometimes when two friends get passionate about somezhing, zhey tend to fight a lot over it. Especially if zhat somezhing is a somebody. Oshi, have you ever fallen in love, or even had a friend before?”

“I'm afraid not. As far as my memory tells me, I have always been alone. I never really felt attached to anybody. None except Nasu, that is.”

“Nasu? So zhey're, like, your BFF or somezhing?”

“My sister, actually.” They turn to each other, their eyes locked onto each other. “You remind me a lot of her. Cute, cheerful, a little funny in the head. Delicate in body, yet strong in soul. If you were not born male, you would have a long line of bachelors waiting to court you.”

Alan turns away, his cheeks flushed bright red. “P-please, don't flatter me so! I'm not zhat attractive. I'm really quite horrible.”

“Horrible? How? Just because you are a Spy? That is just your job.”

“N-no! I meddle with other people's business, I act like a know-it-all, I'm selfish, I have a horrible memory, and I have zhis horrible overbite when I open my mouth. And I eat like a fatty, too.”

“What's so terrible about all that? There's nothing wrong with a few flaws here and there. That's what makes you Yamato Nadeshiko.”

“'Yamato Nadeshiko'? Is zhat some weird Japanese saying or something? It better not be an insult, or I'll—”

“It's what you Americans might refer to as an 'ideal woman'. Though you're a bit different from the usual definition, you are  _my_  Yamato Nadeshiko.”

“Your...? I-I'm sorry, but—”

Their conversation is forced to come to a close, as Ellen barges in. “Guys, Mort's been kidnapped!” Calming down, she explains the situation, displaying a note written in German. “According to Vincent, the message says, 'The next round will determine who will keep The Nameless One'. The only part of it I could read is 'The Nameless One', but I still don't get why they would take Mort.”

His voice and head low, Alan says, “It's me zhey want.” He raises his head, his voice in synch. “As a resident of zhese dorms, you've probably noticed somezhing we first-timers have not, non?”

Ellen taps her finger against her cheek. “You mean the windows? To reduce costs, only every other room was provided with a window. Of the nine rooms on each side of the hall, only about four or five will have one. Wait, you don't mean...?”

“I mean exactly what I'm saying. They've got zhe wrong person.”

The sparkle lost from Ooshiro's eyes, he stands. “How's Vincent? Is he all right?”

“He's unconscious, but he'll be fine.” Ellen walks over and places one hand over the knob. “You two, on the other hand, would need to hurry if you want to save your friend. Knowing how he works, Mort might not live for long.”

With the team short two people, they're even more imbalanced, even with the backup that arrived this morning. In a last-minute desperation attempt, the Spy resorts to a plan that only he can pull off: impersonate Vincent and take his place in battle. Though he lacks the muscle the Scout has, Alan's hair and eye colors are virtually identical, he can make his overbite prominent at will, and if he runs fast and frequently, even the minor details, such as the wider chin and freckles, can be rendered invisible at a glance. He cannot guarantee it will work, but all Scouts have to do is run and jump a lot and hit things, so nothing can go wrong, right?

As it turns out, being a Scout is a more difficult task than Alan thought it would be. Though expert Scouts can prove to be an annoying target, amateurs tend to hesitate and stand still more often, leading to easy headshots, torching, and backstabbing. In addition, due to their lack of innate defenses, they can be killed off in just a few hits, making hit-and-run attacks not only beneficial, but a necessary survival tactic. Scout weapons also tend to be weak when used for long-range attacks, sometimes forcing Alan to move closer in order to deal worthwhile damage. Luckily, Alan is a fast learner and equally quick on his feet, so his ability to conjure up and act upon strategies on the fly compensates for his inexperience.

Running on the rail tracks, he clears the path leading to the control point and strafes atop of it to claim control of it. Bullets zip by his head as he fires a frenzy of scattered shots in the direction of the Sniper aiming at him. As he moves towards the trough under the tracks, he notices something unusual about the RED team's setup. For all the firepower they brought out, they appear to have never thought about having a Medic to back them up.  _It's almost like they_ want _to lose. What are they up to?_

In a mere six minutes, the BLU team wins the match by a landslide. Along with the usual reward of rights to supply, they also receive a strange, squirming bag, which, when unfurled, releases the missing Sniper, bound, gagged and shaved of his trademark lengthy sideburns. Everybody has asked him what happened, but he won't answer, preferring to be alone. The bruises, cuts, and rope burns state the obvious, but Alan can see in his eyes that there is more to the story, a secret he would rather take to his grave.

Due to the trauma he's been through, Ellen excuses Mort for the rest of the day and recommends he take his time to recover. The first thing he does is try to eat. But the food lacks flavor to his tongue and he feels sicker with every bite instead of better, so he dumps it and heads for his temporary dorm. Just the sight of Vincent, asleep in the bottom bunk, makes his head throb more heavily than any of his wounds. Not wanting to climb the ladder, he walks over and slips into his makeshift bed—consisting of only a blanket and pillow—on the floor. The spot has a chill from his prolonged absence, but Mort doesn't mind; the cold soothes his bruises and serves as proof that he is alive.

But even as Mortimer sleeps, the torture would not end. He dreams about hands of all kinds: bare hands, gloved hands, many holding weapons of some sort. With malicious intent, the hands would cut him with knives, beat him with bats, and scar him with blowtorches or cigarettes. But the worst are a pair of thick, pale hands, which would gently caress his face and thighs before plunging in. On and on the cycle continues, until nothing remains but a husk. Once the other hands have had their fun, the pale hands would wrap their fat fingers around his neck and slowly relieve him of his suffering.

“...imer? Sir, wake up!”

Mort's eyes blink and open, staring at Vince's face, wrinkled with worry. “Are you okay, sir? You were crying.”

Rubbing his eyes, he can confirm the Scout's claim. “Oh. That. Vinci, can you do me a favor?”

“Um, sure. What is it?”

“Kill me.”

“What?”

“I'd rather not explain. Just kill me.”

“But—why?”

“Kill me!”

Vince hesitates, his brows furrowed. When his thoughts are interrupted by his grumbling stomach, he says flatly, “Later.” He gets up to leave, closing the door behind him.

Hardly more than a minute has passed when the sound of rapping on wood resonates from outside. “Can I come in?” Mort doesn't answer, but the person walks in anyway. Alan, clad in a T-shirt, baseball pants, and long, knee-length socks, approaches the Sniper and sits on his knees. “I think you need to see zhis.” He takes the ransom note from his pocket and shows it to him. “I don't know what zhey did to you, but I know I am zhe one to blame. Je suis désolée.” Unable to control himself any longer, Alan breaks down crying.

Initially, the Sniper is numb, incapable of sympathizing with the Spy. But slowly, that tear-filled face, contorted with anguish, thaws the ice freezing his heart, and he wraps one arm around Alan, pulling him close to his shoulder. The warmth of Alan's body melts the remainder of the cold, allowing him to rediscover and embrace his own. Together, they lie in each other's arms, smiling as they sleep their troubles away.

Meanwhile, Vincent has just finished his brunch and is delivering food upstairs to his current roommate when he feels something tap on his shoulder. “Trying to smuggle food into your room, eh? You naughty little boy.”

Startled, he turns around, and is relieved by what he sees. “Oh, Ellen. Sorry, but I've got a dog to feed.”

“'Dog'?” Ellen raises a brow. “Oh, I see. How's Mort, by the way?”

“He's fine. Just hungry, is all.”

Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms. “You're lying.”

The scout laughs nervously. “Me, lying? What do you mean, lying? Why would I ever lie about my own friend?”

“You're scratching your arm. That's something you do when you're trying to hide something.”

Realizing that he is, in fact, scratching the bandages on his arm ragged, he pulls his hand away and tucks it in his pocket. After being escorted to the office to talk alone, he then explains to Ellen his earlier interaction with Mort and describes, to his best extent, the mixture of emotions dwelling inside of him. “I honestly don't know if I should do it or not. I mean, I almost did back there, but then he woke up and told me to do it, and now I don't know what to do.”

“First of all, calm down. Panicking will only lead to reckless decisions. Vincent, I know you and Mort have had, well, a bit of a rough patch since you came here. But think about how you two got along before yesterday. Tell me, how was your relationship with him then?”

“We got along well, I suppose. I mean, he did save my skin after Jane beat the crap out of me. And he helped me out a lot when I asked him to run errands with me. He's always willing to help out; not just me, but everybody. He's generally been on Hartmann's good side, that Doc even assigned him to be my bodyguard—not that I really need one.”

“Sounds like you two do get along well. So what's the problem now?”

Vince scratches the back of his neck as he tries to come up with an answer. “Well, I guess it started because I wanted to be with Alan. Or maybe before that, when Hartmann left for RED and Ooshiro took his place. Actually, it might've started before that, when I decided to become roommates with a complete stranger. Or back when...”

“You've been through a lot, haven't you? When you find yourself in a new environment, or start having feelings you thought were never possible before, it's hard to adapt, and the stress gets to you. Remember when you started going to that boarding school? You were so scared, you lashed out at the other students, and then had a panic attack in the middle of class. As fate would have it, it was because of that incident that we met.” She pauses, waiting for a reply from the Scout, and continues when it becomes clear he's not keen on talking. “Point is, you're suffering from a lot, and you may feel like you're at your breaking point. But is it really worth the risk? Tell me, Vincent: how do you really feel about Mortimer Mundy?”

At the mention of the Sniper's name, her sharp eyes, cold and distant, appear to stare into Vincent's soul, digging through his psyche, fiddling with the wires connecting the subconscious and conscious, and mangling the core of his very being. The Scout, staring blankly as the Medic-slash-Spy plays around with his mind, clenches his fists as his anger gradually rises to a boiling point.

“I... I hate Mortimer Mundy! I hate him with every fiber of my being. I won't allow him to corrupt my dear Anonyme. No person as beautiful and clever as she should ever fall for a vulgar brute like him. No. He does not deserve to live at all.” He loosens and unravels the bandages on his arms, revealing a series of scars. “With these hands, I will kill Mortimer Mundy.”


	26. Itsy Bitsy Spyer

Burning with a new-found determination, Vince runs out of the room and makes way for the second floor. As he approaches the door to his flat, he reaches his arm out for the knob when he flinches. He can't just rush right in, can he? Why is he even here?

“Vincent,” Ooshiro chimes in, carrying a bag. “I thought I would check up on Mundy-san, make sure he is feeling better. Let us go together.” He opens the door for Vince and struts in. “How are you doing, Mo... Oh.” He looks down and finds Mortimer and Alan, asleep in each other's arms. “I... I guess I'll just leave this here.” He mutters a soft apology as he sets down the bag and cautiously backs out of the room. “Astor-chan looks so peaceful, so happy when he's with him. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't think either of us have a chance.”

As if some primal instinct has awoken, his brows furrow as his eyes grow wild. “'Either of us'? You dare imply...?” The Scout grabs hold of Ooshiro's coat lapels and slams him against the wall. “Let's get this straight: Alan belongs to me and only me. You are not to touch him or talk to him. If I catch you even staring at him, I will hurt you so badly, even Respawn won't be able to fix you. You got that?” His throat tightening, Ooshiro nods, and is let go. But for a long while afterward, he finds himself still shaking.

The remainder of the workday, Ooshiro and Vincent keep their distance, to prevent a repeat of their earlier bout. In order to appease the Scout, he even offers to

bunk with Mort, allowing him to sleep with Alan. In the end, Ellen drops by to tell them Alan will be staying in her office for the night. Vince, disgruntled, insists on sleeping by himself. No one has dared to confront him about it.

“Vincent is a rather frightening character,” the Asian says, a slight tremble in his voice. “To think, he was so friendly just the other day.”

“Yer tellin' me. He's been givin' me the stinkeye the whole day.” Settling into the top bunk, Mort plays around with his newest gift from Ooshiro, a stuffed koala with a blue bow tie. “It's like he hates me or somethin'. Sammy, do you hate me?”

“What? Of course not! If I did, would I have gone through the trouble of giving you anything? Well, even if I did—which I don't, by the way—I probably would have done it, anyway, as a polite gesture. After all, you are the only other person who knows about my secret.”

Mort, half-distracted, is playing airplane with his toy. “Oh? So who's the other bloke?”

“Astor-chan. To a certain extent. He has yet to connect the story I told him to me, but knowing how smart he is, he will figure it out sooner or later.” Beat. “Mort, I must be honest with you: you belong with Astor-chan. You've known him for much longer than I have, and it's clear he likes you back. I do not deserve someone as perfect as him.”

As Ooshiro makes his confession, the plush koala—in a fit of shock—crash-lands on the Sniper's face. “Whaddaya mean by that? Al's just a friend. There's nothing goin' on between us. If you like 'im so much, just tell 'im already.”

“No, I can't! Astor-chan is... And I'm... It will never work out.”

“Aw, nonsense! You two would make a cute couple. Yer smart an' sweet an' gentle an' caring, an' so is Al. You have that much in common already. I say give 'er a whirl!”

“Um, okay. But what about Vincent? I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but he likes Astor-chan, as well.”

Mortimer, embracing the stuffed bear, ponders this over for a few seconds before concluding, “I wouldn't worry too much about him. I mean, yeah, he does seem to care about him, but I don't really get the feeling he actually likes him for him. Ya know what I mean?”

“Um, not really.”

“You like Al, right? Like, really,  _really_  like 'im. You would give 'im the world if he wants it. 'Cause you like him for  _him_. But Vinci, I don't get that same feeling. I don't think he's in love with Al. Hell, I don't think he even likes him as a friend. I think he's clinging onto Al 'cause he's got nothin' else to hold onto.”

“I think I understand now. But the question is, why him? What has attracted him to Astor-chan?”

Mort shrugs and flickers his droopy eyelids. “I'm sure he's got his reasons. We'll find out when we have to.” The next moment, he's fast asleep.

Sleep does not come as easily for Ooshiro. His dreams, set in pitch blackness, are plagued by voices, voices that sound similar to him, yet not like him at all. There are other voices, too—which sound vaguely familiar, if he can just remember where he last heard them. He is lost in a dreamlike state, yet he does not feel at all asleep. In fact, he feels as if he has been awake all this time, his body going through the motions without his conscious thought.  _What am I doing?_ , he wonders.  _What is he up to now?_

Meanwhile, somewhere outside of the RED barracks, three men are standing around, as if waiting for something to happen. Two of them, Luca and Dante, exchange some meaningless old-man chatter while the youngest, Valdo, tunes them out, more interested in the approaching speck in the distance. The speck, dressed in white and blue, becomes less of a speck and more of a giant, towering over the Scout. “'Sup, li'l batty? You feelin' any better?” The giant, Hohojirozame, ruffles Valdo's reddish-blond hair—a habit that initially bothered him, but grew fond of over time, as he found the other's presence comforting.

“Mostly. My bones still need a-fixing.” He cocks his head, his neck letting out a loud crack as he does so. “Take notes: never,  _ever_  get crushed by a train. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

“Fledermaus's condition has been improving rapidly, thanks to zhe Lifeblood. Even vithout my Medigun, he has been getting better at a faster pace zhan I expected.” He brushes his finger against the Scout's arm, where a scar from the railroad incident is still healing. “But enough about him. How is Mr. Mundy? I'm sure he enjoyed our time together. Gott knows I did.”

“Yeah, I'm sure he did,” Hohojiro retorts with a sneer. “And I'm sure he enjoys having his own ally manipulated to turn on him. Ain't that right, Luca?”

“Whatever do you mean? The only ones I've subjected to any sort of brainwashing is Anonyme. Unless they have regained their senses and gone turncoat...!”

“I'm talking about vamp bro's twin, ya idjits! Vince has been actin' weird recently, and since earlier today, he's gone completely bonkers. Somethin' smells here, an' I'm diggin' to the bottom 'til I find out what it is.”

Luca raises a brow. “Vincent, you say?” Plucking a cigarette from his pocket, he flashes a crooked grin. “Signore Zame, would you like to hear a story?”

Back in the BLU base, Ellen is performing a series of tests to check up on Alan's health. After finishing up the X-rays, she sets aside her medical tools and picks up her clipboard and pen. “You're in pretty good shape, miss. A little low on blood pressure, but nothing to call the ER about. And you've managed to pack on a few pounds.”

Alan, stripped down to his underwear, examines himself, his fingers brushing the surface of his soft skin and grimacing at the hideous scar lined over his chest. “And my heart?”

“Oh, that? Beating like a drum. Don't worry, Alan: SPAI only hires the best of the best, doctors included.”

“You're just stroking your ego now, aren't you?”

She chuckles. “Maybe. But if the boot fits.”

“Ellen, why did SPAI choose me? Why choose some sickly kid with no home or family? There must have been a million other contenders more capable of espionage.”

“Alan, my dear, Luca chose you because he saw a great potential within you. Perhaps not quite the same sort of potential that they saw in me, but something equally worthy. And I think he was feeling a bit lonely. For all the women he seduced, not once did he ever think about settling down; I never expected him to bring up a child.”

“He's not the best man, but he's still my dad. That's why I need to prove myself even more.” He pinches the small bit of flab forming in his once-flat stomach, reminded of Mort's comment the other day. “Ellen, am I fat?”

She gives a curious look. “Have I told you not to worry? Whatever Luca or the other Spies think should never get in the way of you doing your best. Besides, they're totally wrong, and that is a scientific fact.” Ellen rustles the young blonde's hair and escorts him to the nearest medical bed. Shortly after he lays his head to rest, the phone starts ringing, pressuring her to rush over and pick it up. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end, a low, growling timbre with an accent hailing from the exotic Scotland, answers. “Oi. It's McCullen. Just calling to check up on the boys.”

“They're doing fine. I've just sent Alan to bed. You have some exceptionally talented rookies, Duncan.”

“Wish I could say the same. New Scout's kind of screwy in the head. Speaking of new kids, is that Ooshiro bloke getting along with everybody?”

“Sammy is a spectacular Medic. Now, if only Vincent would behave a little better. He's been acting awfully bitter, not to mention aggressive.”

“He does take after Mallory. I hope Morty's able t' deal with 'im.”

“He...” She twirls the phone cord as she comes up with a proper reply. “He has done exceedingly well on the battlefield. Granted, he's working a bit outside of his comfort zone, but he has shown amazing physical skill. And he's an absolute sweetheart!” The two of them laugh. “Back to Mallory, how is he doing? Have you spoken with him yet?”

“Not much, but I've met with his new cohorts. Listening to the grapevine, the REDs've been celebratin' since Val an' Dante left. Doc seems a bit wary 'bout the whole thing. Can't say I don't agree with 'im; this whole situation's givin' me weird vibes, like something bad's gonna happen.”

“So even when the head honcho's gone, the place is still a hellhole.”  _I oughta know_ , she muses.  _I've been there._  “Well, I'm afraid it's getting late. Got the graveyard shift tonight. Good night, Duncan—”

“Hold on. Promise me you'll protect them. 'Specially Mort. Lad doesn't know the danger he's in.”

Ellen hesitates before saying, “I'll try, but I can't make any promises.” She hangs up before Duncan can speak further.  _It's too late for that, anyway._


	27. Lady in RED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno if it was a glitch on AO3's part or not, but this chapter was missing from this version of the story. So here it is (again?)!

Back at the Teufort base, Duncan and Jane have been holding up the base in Vince's absence, with the others helping out whenever they can. Since they left, there have been an increase in new recruits for Builder's League United, including the missing members' current substitutes: Mr. Batteur, Amelia Rockman, and Minnie Orwell. The female novices, for their lack of experience, adapt surprisingly well to the pathos. Mr. Batteur, on the other hand...

“Is this how you do the 'Scouting' thing,” he asks as he swings the bat around with no abandon.

“Batterman, you—ow!—swing that thing at the other blokes there!”

“Oh.” He points the bat at a zaftig woman in nurse uniform. “Shall I purify this one here?”

“Don't aim that at Minnie! The red ones, dammit!” Mr. Batteur examines the people around him, and gives Duncan a puzzled look. “Huh. Colorblind, are ye? Well, just concentrate on getting into that building and retrieving the suitcase that's in there.” His expression changing, as if the gears in his head are finally turning properly, the substitute Scout turns to the rustic red building and runs in that direction. Once out of earshot, Duncan sighs in exasperation and takes a swig from his bottle.

Minnie glances at the Demoman and smirks. “New Scout giving you trouble?”

“He's a handful. I dunno how Vince can handle 'im.”

“Maybe he just knows how to get into his head. That Mr. Batteur is quite the character—and handsome, too!”

“Is men all you ever think about?” Leaning against the resupply locker is a tall, lanky woman with curly auburn hair tied back, and whose shirtsleeves sport a crosshairs insignia. “I don't know if you're aware, but we have a mission to do.” As she chews out the petite Medic, she reloads her rifle and raises it, inspecting the scope. “I'm heading out. Cover Duncan.”

“I know what I'm doing, Mia,” Minnie yells as the Sniper exits the locker room. Simmering down, she blushes and follows Duncan into the battlefield. After reinvigorating the Demoman past his usual limits, she switches over to Pasha, then Jane and Aiden, until her Medigun is absolutely brimming with energy. In a moment of sheer impulsiveness, she pushes the trigger, releasing the energy on her nearest target, Miller.

Though not a well-thought-out strategy by any means, the Engineer tries to take advantage of the temporary invincibility to protect his nest of machinery from the oncoming horde of Soldiers and Scouts. But once the effect wears off, their plan falters, as an enemy Spy—having taken advantage of the opportunity—saps the Sentry, breaking it to pieces, and stabs Minnie in the back before finishing off Miller. After respawning, Minnie tries to apologize to the Engineer, but receives the cold shoulder. Dismayed and filled with regret, she considers retiring early when the voice over the PA announces their verdict. “Victory!”

The men and women of BLU celebrate their first victory of the day with the grandest feast they can afford. The lounge room, a room normally reserved for meetings and group discussions, is transformed into a gathering place where the mercs can eat, drink, and be merry. Duncan, having had enough to drink, looks around, inspecting the behaviors of his coworkers. Minnie is making drunken advances towards Mr. Batteur, who appears not to be paying much attention. Pasha, normally a reserved man, is much livelier, chatting it up with an enraptured Amelia. Miller, neither the sociable sort nor very well-liked, keeps to himself and retires to his room early. But a slippery snake like him is low on the Scotsman's priority list compared to Jane, who's nowhere in sight.

He searches through the Soldier's usual hiding places—the gym, their room, the back of the barracks where the raccoons frolic—to no avail. He also checks the doctor's office and the cafeteria, with no luck. Desperate, he knocks on the door leading to the garage. “'Ey.”

The door opens, and Miller, cranky and goggles-free, answers. “What do yo want? I'm a li'l busy here.”

“Is Aiden with ye?”

“Haven't seen 'er since work today. Come t' think of it, I haven't seen that brat of yers in ages. Y'sure they're not eloping?”

“Janey would never—”

“Hey, you never know. Kids these days, always controlled by their loins. 'Following their hearts', they call it. But we all know the truth, don't we?” His gloved hand brushes against Duncan's chest, his blood red eyes and voice teeming with lust. “Y'know, if I was a youngster havin' my first time, I'd do it in the showers. Small room, lots of privacy, water glistening on soft skin...”

His advances are interrupted by the Demoman's hand grasping his wrist tightly, threatening to crush it. “Jane is not that kind of boy, an' he never will be.”

Sultry eyes turning cold, the Engineer smirks and slaps his hand away from him. “Suit yerself.”

Despite his loathing for Miller, Duncan admits he had not once searched through the locker room. He looks the locker rooms up and down, then sniffs the air. The salty scent of the young Soldier's sweat still lingers, and grows stronger as he starts heading towards the shower room. That's when he starts hearing voices.

“Janey, I can't!”

“Relax, Aiden. It'll be alright. Here, let me start.” The shower turns on, and footsteps step into the forming puddle on the floor. “Now you go.”

“But I'm scared.”

“There's no need to be scared. Think of it as a game. Lemme help.”

“J-Janey! No! Stop it!”

Hearing Aiden's voice awakens a protective instinct within Duncan, and he barges into the room, making a mad dash towards the source. But when he opens the shower curtain, his eye widens, as he finds Jane and Aiden, soaked and fully clothed, in the midst of an embrace. Aiden, with her curling red hair sticking to her skin and clothes and green eyes, large and droopy, resembles a frightened, wet puppy clinging for dear life.

He dries them off and redresses them, then sends them to his room, where he gives them the scolding of a lifetime. “You two should be ashamed of yerselves,” Duncan barks as he circles back and forth. “'Specially you, Janey. Forcin' a girl into doin'... whatever the hell it is you were doin'.”

“You don't get it! I was trying to help Aiden—”

“Don't speak unless given permission. Did you not learn anything at yer snooty li'l academy? 'Cause apparently, they don't teach your folk basic courtesy.” Softening his tone, he turns to Aiden. “You okay, lassie?” The redhead nods, and he smiles. “Good. If Janey does anythin' ye don't wanna do, you have my permission to whoop his ass into shape. Run along now.” He hands her a small towel to dry her hair with and returns his attention to Jane. “That Aiden lass, do you love her?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“With all yer heart?”

“All of it, sir.”

“Then treat 'er with respect. Take it from me, there's nothin' worse to a woman than a broken heart. Give her time to recover, then apologize to 'er. 'Cause if ye don't, may the gods help ye.”

After leaving Jane to his business, Duncan leaves the barracks and drives over to the bar. One of the workers, another Demoman, tosses an apron at him and clocks out for the night. His shift starts off peacefully, with few customers causing any sort of ruckus, but quickly takes a nosedive midway through. And it's all because of  _her_.

She saunters through the doors, her lovely hips swaying as her luscious breasts protrude from her oversized coat, causing many of the men present to drop their jaws and swoon and whistle. The woman turns and glares at the catcalling boars in the audience, shutting them up for the time being. As she takes her seat on the bar stool, her immense bust presses against the countertop without any effort from her part. Her husky voice, heavily layered with a traditional highlander's accent, says bluntly, “Hit me up, barkeep. Gimme a scotch an' everything on yer menu.”

Preoccupied with refilling a customer's drink, Duncan replies, “I don't got much in regards to food, but we got plenty of scotch fer...” The moment he turns around, he drops his jaw and almost drops the mug in his hands. The Scottish lass is a sight to behold, not only for her strong, buxom figure and umber skin, but for all her exotic features, from her curly pink hair to her pointed ears and red eyes. These traits—he recognizes instantly—are reminiscent of one whose body had been tainted by magic.

As he hands her a shot glass, her ears perk up. “Hey. Don't I know you from somewhere?”

He glances at her face, then turns away, his heart skipping a beat. “You must be mistaken. In all my years of spottin' unicorns an' slayin' dragons, I ain't never seen such a rare creature.”

“So pretty women are unicorns now?” She laughs and leans forward. “But then, you've always had unusual interests, Duncan.”

He fumbles to keep the scotch bottle intact as he swivels in her direction. “C-C-Ceci? Is that really you? Praise the gods, it's you!”

“The one and only. I thought I lost myself in that mess way back when. But that's all in the past. Anywho, how've you been, Dun?”

“Overworked an' underpaid. But otherwise, just fine. Question is, why're you here?”

As he pours her some drink and offers a bowl of mini-pretzels, Ceci explains. “Oh, funny story. See, I was just mindin' my own business one day, when some fat ol' man in white walked up to me and gave me a job. Said his boss noticed my talents or something, an' wanted me to come to this rinky-dink town in the 'States. Though I dunno what talents he's really talkin' about, unless you count blowin' up stuff as one.”

“Funny. I was hired for the same exact reason. Looks like we'll be workin' together.”  _Lucky me, workin' with my ol' mate._  “Er, have ye got any blue clothes on you? It's key part of the uniform.”

“Huh? What're you talkin' about? The fat guy told me to wear red. Probably for the best; blue doesn't look good on me.”

“Waitaminute. What's the name of the company?”

“Reliable Excavations and Demolitions.”

“Dear gods,” the voice in his head yelps. “About that man, has he ever mentioned 'Builders League United'?”

“Oh, yeah. He said somethin' about them bein' our competition. Whatever; I don't care much 'bout that stuff.”

_This is gonna get awkward._  “I still got a couple of hours left in this shift, but if yer willing to wait, I suppose we can head out together, like ol' pals ought to.” Duncan smiles gently, feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

Glancing at the drunk, unsavory men around her, she replies, “Sure. It'd be nice to be around decent company for once.” She gulps down the rest of her scotch and munches on the pretzels while keeping to herself. With a figure like hers, she has to; if she so much as makes a motion, regardless of intention, some idiot will inevitably stride on over, under the delusion that his advances will guarantee easy access into her pants. She strips her jacket— _Dear Goddess, how tight that thing was!_ —hoping her unabashed display of rippling muscles will repel at least half of the current population. A downside she has not intended, however, is how the freedom from its ill-fitting restraints have caused her gargantuan breasts to hang loosely over the counter, becoming an even bigger burden than before as they spill both her snack and (recently refilled) drink. Flustered, she stuffs herself into her coat and runs out without so much as an apology.

“I screwed up really badly back there,” Jane Doe mutters to himself as he walks past the street sign. More than two hours have passed since the incident from earlier, and he has yet to see Aiden. As much as he wants to tell her he's sorry, some part of him is unable to. Like an overgrown wisdom tooth, getting an apology out of him for anything requires some yanking. Clad in a light jacket, he stuffs his hands into his pockets, the chilled nightly wind nipping at his bare fingers. Down the road he continues, motivated by the idea of grabbing a sip while Duncan is still working the counter.

Suddenly, he is pushed aside by a large, powerful force. As he stumbles, he can see that what pushed him was indeed human, but none unlike he's ever seen before. Upon first impressions, he is reminded of Duncan or one of the other Demomen he's seen while on duty. But looking more closely, the figure is totally different: large, long-haired, and feminine. This Amazon standing before him does not possess the traits Jane prefers in a woman, but she has an aura that draws him in somehow.

The strange woman grabs him by the arm and carries him to his feet. “Sorry 'bout that. I'm in a bit of a rush. Hey, do you know where the RED building is?”

Still a bit dazed from the fall, he says, “Well, I know about a restaurant on Blitz Creek that—”

“Not  _a_  red building!  _The_  RED Building! Okay, um, well, ya know a guy named... Oh, what was his name? Oh, gods...!” She snaps her fingers repeatedly, as if trying to ignite a candle in her head. “Ah, yes. Dante!”

Jane snaps back at mention of the name. “Dante?”

“Yeah, Dante Alder-something. He's this fat, white guy with glasses an' a weird obsession with ribbons. I take it you know 'im?”

“Uh, yeah. Sort of. He's out of town for the weekend, but if you're looking for the forts, they're over that way, just past the outskirts.” He points in the direction opposite of where he was going up until now. “It's practically a big ol' barn; you can't miss it.”

“Barn? I wasn't expectin' to raise cattle or nothin'.”

“The way those fools arrange themselves, they might as well be. What business do you have with them, anyway?”

“Well, that Dante guy jus' walked up to me an' said, 'Guten tag, shön Fraulein! How vould you like to put your talents to good use?' Then he handed me this flyer an' left.” She slips a folded sheet from her pocket and unfurls it, revealing a propaganda poster-style advertisement that reads, 'NOW HIRING! JOIN RED TODAY.' “He's kind of a weirdo, but he seems nice enough.”

Jane wants to protest otherwise, but bites his tongue and changes the subject. “So, you got a name?”

“Cecilia Murray. Call me 'Ceci', if you'd like. What's yours, kid?”

“Jane Doe. And I'm twenty-six— _not_  a kid.” Letting his roiling anger subside, he adds, “Since you're new here, I might as well help you there. I'm kind of heading back there, anyway.”

In response, Cecilia embraces the small young man, squeezing his face against her bosom as her strong arms threaten to crush his spine. “Oh, thank you, Janey! You're such a sweet li'l boy, arentcha?” He gives a muffled reply, and she sets him down, realizing the harm she's unintentionally doing. Though a bit miffed at the Scottish lady's habit of treating him like a child, he cannot help but admire her straightforward nature, thus why he offered to escort her to the bases. As they trek through the town, Ceci says, “So, do you work for RED, too? You seem to know an awful lot about them for a civilian.”

'Civilian.' Just hearing the word grates on his nerves. “As a matter of fact, no. I work at BLU.”

“BLU...? Oh, an old friend of mine mentioned something 'bout working there. Never expected to see Duncan, of all people.”

Jane stops and turns his head. “You know Duncan?” Having rarely heard much about his adoptive father's past life, this is a revelation.

“Of course! We were pals way back in the day. I take it you're his friend from work?”

Hesitating, he answers, “Actually, he's kind of my father.”

“Duncan's a dad?” She guffaws at the fact. “Aw, quit pullin' my leg! There's no chance in Hell he'd ever be a father. Not the way he philanders about—”

“It's true! He took me in as a kid—thirteen years ago.”

“Thirteen years...” She stops to ponder over the events that happened those many years ago. “Come to think of it, he really does seem more mature somehow. Maybe it's because we were just kids then, but comparing the Duncan I know to the one I saw earlier, it's almost like they're different people.”  _Or maybe I never knew a thing about him._  “Hey, Janey, does he have a lover?”

“He's gone out with a few girls, and a couple of guys, too. But that was long before I came into the picture. I don't think he's been with anyone in years.”

Ceci sighs in relief. “I see.” She mouths a “thank you” to the gods above—which Janey might have caught, judging by the smile on his face.

Changing the subject, they chat about the sights and sounds around them as Jane points out each establishment and detail, until finally, they are outside of the city limits, where the fortresses are located. It saddens them both to part ways, but the guaranteed promise that they will meet again warms Cecilia's heart. Walking further, she enters the RED barracks, where she is greeted by a kindly blond woman with a face that can best be described as “orc-like”. The woman—“Milly”, she insists on being called—happily gives her a tour of the interior, concluding with the opening of Ceci's designated room. After unpacking the luggage (sent directly to the RED base from the train station), Ceci takes some nightclothes and starts heading for the showers.

Jane Doe is sifting through his underwear drawer when he hears a knocking on the door. He opens it and his eyes widen, as they make contact with the visitor's green irises. “Janey? Are you feeling better?”

He attempts to stammer a reply, but his body isn't willing to cooperate, slamming the door and turning away from it. No more than a second later, Aiden barges in. “What the hell was that for? You're not still mad at me, are you? I just dropped by to apologize for being a coward, yet when you're confronted directly, you run away. Who's the real coward here?” Simmering down, she reaches for the knob. “I'll start talking to you again when you're ready to grow up.” With a loud slam, Jane is left to his business of wallowing in his pity.

The moment Duncan has returned early from his shift, he dials the number for the BLU Badlands base. He receives the team's leader, Ellen, on the other end, and he chats with her, checking up on the four members that—admittedly—he misses. According to her input, the three rookies have been adapting amazingly to their new situations and settings, but Vince—while still as competent as ever—has been acting more than a touch aggressive. Latter issue aside, he grins, proud of his allies in learning their way around. But Mortimer, he has doubts about. Besides from his lack of work experience, he also lacks awareness of the world around him; from his perspective, all people are good, or have the potential. Without proper guidance, who knows what will happen to the young Sniper? Even with Ellen's promise, there's no telling whether he can be protected at all, especially with Dante hot on his trail.

Hearing the abrupt dial-tone from her end, he slams the phone on the receiver and retires to his room. Sleeping in the bottom bunk is Janey, curled up under the blankets. Duncan smiles and gently lifts the sheet, when his smile turns upside down. No hint of his blond hair, nor of his small body. Instead, there lies a mess of clothes and props, cleverly bundled to vaguely resemble his form when covered up. With a handful of the blanket held inches away from his nostrils, he takes a deep sniff, then drops it and hits the ground running.

Meanwhile, Jane, done with his wallowing, heads out of the barracks to the roofs. His stomach fills with butterflies as he spots Aiden at the edge of the roof, her long hair flowing in the wind. Approaching her, his voice shakes as he calls out her name. She glances, then turns away. With a sigh, he says, “I know I messed up badly. I tried to make you do something you didn't want to, and then I blew you off like that. That was really immature of me. But I'm ready to grow up now.”

Aiden does not say anything. She stands and starts walking up to him. Her pace picks up, and stops as she raises her hand to slap him—and doesn't. “You idiot,” she says as she raises his head, then leans over to kiss him on the lips. “You brave, handsome little idiot. You haven't changed one bit.”

Jane blushes, and they giggle like schoolchildren before falling into an awkward silence. He tries to say something worthwhile, but blurts out, “This isn't right. Something's missing. Something important.”

The Pyro turns solemn. “You're right. As much as I hate to say it, it doesn't feel right without Ally here.” Jane nods, accepting her comment without asking for context. “But the answer's nearby—I know it! We'll find Ally, and things can go back the way we used to. You'll get your memories back, and I'll...” She stops short, realizing the uncertainty of her future.

“You'll marry me?”

Hesitant, Aiden whispers, “Yes.”

Hiding in the shadows, just out of the younger mercs' line of sight, is Duncan, who overheard only the last part of the conversation. Stripped of most of its context, all he can understand is the marriage proposal.  _Ally_ —a name he only heard once, while a thirteen-year-old Janey was talking in his sleep. And now it's popped up again, this time with far more significance. Whoever this “Ally” character is, they're the key to unlocking Jane's past—and possibly more. But he has nothing to go on, save for Aiden's statement.  _Time to dig a little deeper._


	28. Bleeding Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing where we last left off, we have a straightforward, battle-centric chapter, this time from the perspective of rookie Demolass Cecilia. I'll admit that, at this point, I haven't really any particular "strategy" in mind when writing these scenarios, but if you're familiar with the original gameplay, I suppose you can use your imagination to fill in any blanks.

At the crack of dawn, Cecilia wakes up and—with the door locked and blinds down—strips her nightgown and replaces it with a fortified corset, then covered by a light, red-and-white sweater. After slipping into her pants, socks, and knickers, she runs downstairs to the cafeteria, where she gobbles down plateful after plateful of food, to the point where the food staff have to cut her off. Disappointed, she moves onto more important matters: work. According to her roommate, they are high-class bodyguards hired to protect their company's secrets from the competition, namely BLU. Leading their team into battle is—to her amazement—the fat man in white, Dante Something-such. As confusing as the mystery behind her occupation has been, the question of his abrupt arrival rattles her brain even more, and she's not alone.

The large man next to her is muttering German curses under his breath the moment he catches whiff of Dante's presence. “Guten Morgen, Herr Hartmann,” the shorter of the two greets, his tone unusually chipper. “It has been too long since I have last seen your handsome face.” His gaze shifts to her. “Cecilia, is it? Your, ah,  _presence_  is hard to miss.” He stares longingly at her chest until a stern 'Ahem' calls his attention to Hartmann again. “Apologies if my sudden return has caught some of you off-guard. I have come to check up on things personally, and to give a proper introduction to zhe new recruits. I am Doktor Dante Alterheim. My purpose is to assist my teammates in and out of battle. Und as unofficial leader of zhe Teufort branch of RED, I juggle all sorts of responsibilities, including those in other sectors. I tend to be a busy man, but I promise to alvays make time for all of you.” Dante flashes a friendly grin, which causes Hartmann to cringe. “So let's get zhis show on zhe road, no?”

After the sixty-second grace period, the gates open, and mercenaries from both sides of the river rush out, ready to fight. Bullets and projectiles fly across the stage, as the actors march on, fulfilling their respective roles of running, shooting, healing, and so on. Overwhelmed by the rapidfire chaos happening around her, she fires the trigger, her gun spouting grenades this way and that without thought. Due to the arc and the tendency for the explosives to bounce, a great many of her attempts miss their target, or create minimal damage. Fearing her life, she runs into safety, not realizing the trouble she has gotten into until it's too late to go back.

Ceci's red eyes shift back and forth, examining the gray walls, which were painted baby blue at one point, but worn away with the sands of time. Moving further, she feels an uncomfortable, tense feeling in her shoulders and gut, made worse when she catches sight of an opened safe door.  _The intelligence!_  She barges into the room and screeches to a halt. In one corner, a desk with a blue suitcase. In the other, a three-legged machine with gatling guns for arms and a head with four portholes. The machine whirs and blasts bullets and small rockets in her direction, activating her fight-or-flight instincts. After escaping the mechanical onslaught, the Demowoman prepares her grenade launcher and rushes back in. But in the end, her counterattack plan proves to be a spectacular failure.

Seconds after blacking out, she opens her eyes and blinks. The first thing she sees upon regaining consciousness is the exit leading to the battlefield. Still a bit woozy from whatever happened a moment ago, she trudges over to the resupply locker, only to find that her weapons have been reloaded and her wounds healed. “Not used to the ReSyst, are you?” She turns around and finds herself cornered by a blond man with tanned skin. “You'll get used to it after a while.”

On impulse, she aims her gun at the man. “Don't come any closer, or I'll shoot!”

Scared, he backs away. “Hold on, mate, I'm on your side! Pass me some of those arrows, won't you?” Ceci glares at him, but gives him what he wants, anyway. “Ta. You're the new Demo, right? I have to admit, you got guts, runnin' into the BLU base like that.”

“Wait, how did you—?”

“From the roost, I see everything. But arrows don't deal much damage from afar, so I had to move on down. I'm Joey.” He holds out his hand. “What's yours?”

She looks at Joey warily, but softens up enough to accept. “Cecilia. Call me Ceci.” Feeling the rough callouses and firm grip of his hands, she warms up to his presence. “Say, you got strong arms there.”

He chuckles nervously. “Yeah. But I think Hartmann's got me beat. An' Mort's definitely got me beat on leg strength.”

“Who's Mort?”

“He's just a friend of mine. Not much to say 'bout him.” He shuffles about in his place when the five-minute warning blares out from the speakers. “I'll tell you more later. Let's go!”

Joey and Ceci run out the door and give it their all. The blond Sniper tosses a jar of yellow liquid at a nearby Scout and hacks him to pieces with his knife while he's still drenched. Meanwhile, Cecilia aims and fires a series of sticky bombs at the bridge, detonating them the moment the Heavy and Medic duo tread over it. Once a path has been cleared, Hartmann and Dante move onward, mowing down all who stand in their way. RED's Scout runs ahead of them, getting ahold of the enemy intelligence and escaping with it while the rest of his team back at the base protects their own. A dastardly BLU Spy, red suitcase in hand, is well on his way to leaving the base, when Ceci traps him in a corner and blows him to bits. Tensions rise as the clock ticks down, but in the last few seconds, the Scout returns, and the announcer declares RED the victor.

After handing the intelligence over to one of the company's men for further inspection, Dante marches off, disappearing like dust in the wind. Ceci is curious about where the man goes to when he's not on duty, yet relieved by his absence.  _If only I was able to disappear like that. Wouldn't have to deal with idiots then._

Indeed, there is hardly a moment when Cecilia hasn't been hit on by a man. Every time she manages to find civilization, she is forced to deal with catcalls and whistles and everything in between. She's been groped a few times, but she makes quick work of them, ensuring they've learned a useful life lesson. Unfortunately, for every set of nuts she's kicked, there's another ten sets ready to degrade her. And the women—catty and judgmental—are hardly better. From the time she hit puberty onward, she learned there is only one place where she will feel right at home: alone on the open road.

“Oi. Can you hear me up there?” Ceci snaps out of her trance and looks down at Joey, standing beside her. “We got an hour to ourselves. How 'bout we have lunch out? It's on me.”

Wary, Ceci replies, “Ah, alright. But only 'cause you saved my arse out there. And no funny business!”

“On a date with la chica nueva already?” Nudging Joey's arm is the Scout, a slim, dark youth in a red and gold outfit too gaudy for the battlefield. “I have to say, I'm jealous.”

Joey hits him back hard with his elbow. “It's simple courtesy, José. Nothing more.”

“I was just about to give up on you. She deserves much better. Either way, looks like I won five bucks!” José laughs and grins like an idiot. As soon as he blinks, he finds himself on the floor, laughing even as he's spitting out loose, cracked teeth.

Leaving the Scout to wallow in his well-deserved pain, Joey escorts Ceci to his car, arriving at Kanpai's moments later. He orders lo mein with mixed vegetables and sweet, sauce-covered chicken, while she chows down on a juicy steak. “What's up with that guy? I'll admit, he's cute, but gods, what a creep!”

“Ignore 'im. He's just a rookie from Dustbowl. What he's got in speed he lacks in brains.”

She chuckles at his remark, then glimpses down at him, paying more attention to the book in his hand than her. “Whatcha reading?”

“'S a book on the occult. Full 'a monsters and whatnot. For research.”

Her ears perk up, intrigued. “Research? For what?”

A pause. “A book. I'm a writer by trade. Whenever an idea comes up, I read up on various subjects that relate to it. It's one thing to write an entertaining story, but another to write an engaging one. Creating a sense of realism is key to grabbing the reader's focus.”

“So it's like 'know the rules before you break 'em'?”

He nods. “I'm not familiar with the fantastic or strange, so I'm looking up folk legends for inspiration.”

“Oh! I'm all about the fantastic and strange! Feel free to ask me anything.”

“Alright, then.” He slams the book shut and sets it aside. “Perhaps you can help me with something.”

After finishing their meals, they drive over to a cemetery, located close to the residential outskirts. A chill goes down Ceci's spine as she and Joey pass through the gates, walking past the assortment of tombstones lined evenly in rows. Eventually, they stop before a small, stone cross, engraved with a stranger's name, followed by “R.I.P”. “This man used to work at our company. He taught me everything there is to know. Far as anyone could tell, he never had any enemies. Then one day, he vanished. No one knew where he went, and no one at Teufort seemed to care. Several weeks later, he did return... in pieces.”

“I-I dunno where you're going with this. Unless this is building up to some exciting ghost story, I don't really see any—”

“Little by little, parts of him returned. But one thing is still missing: his heart.”

Ceci's eyes widen, slowly realizing the implications. “But without his heart, he—”

“This grave was created for him, by the members of Teufort RED. If he were complete, he would have been lying here peacefully.” He stands up and faces her. “A lot of old legends would go into detail about how important the body is, both physically and spiritually. Even in modern science, the heart holds special meaning.”

“But that hardly narrows it down, does it?” She brushes her hands over the grave, sensing its emptiness, its lack of ghostly aura. “Why exactly would they need the heart? If they were a mad scientist of some sort, they would have gotten one from a lab or some place. But his killer, whoever he is, wanted his heart for some reason.”

“That would give him a motive.”

“Yes. And as the source of all life, the heart—and the blood that flows through it—is also considered the birthplace of the soul. Thus why vampires and other monsters can be killed with a stake there.” She reads the name on the tombstone again. Igor Volkov. “Do you know where the rest of the body is?”

He hesitates before replying, “With Dante.”

Meanwhile, in the medical office, Dante sits gleefully in his chair, twirling his fork in the gore-filled spaghetti with one hand as his other balances the phone. “Everything is going ever so lovely! My experiments have proven to be quite successful, in many vays. Ve simply cannot lose! Say, how's your precious Anonyme faring? Oh. I see. Hmm. He's clever, zhat Alan. More so zhan I thought. Vincent, though, not so much. Ellen's practically got him under her thumb, so zhere's no hope for him. Hohojiro? Vhat about him? Vell, yes, he's a bit of a loose cannon, but he can be convinced. Huh? Vhat about Mortimer? Uh-huh. Yes.”

All of a sudden, his face turns completely serious, his red eyes scheming as he swallows a mouthful of noodles, blood staining his beard. “He is a persistent one, isn't he? Vell, even if he catches on to my plan, he's got another thing coming. Like father, like son, as zhey alvays say.”


	29. From the Lost Days

Monday morning, Hartmann—under Dante's orders—heads over to the train station to wait for Valdo and Luca. While watching the passengers exit the train, he spots Mortimer, with Vincent, Alan, and the new Medic, Ooshiro, on his tail. The four of them spot the large man and run over to embrace him (all except Ooshiro, who gets dragged into the group hug). Mort and Alan clamor all at once, overpowering the others until Hartmann tells them to stop. “Bitte, mein Freunde. One at a time, please. How vas your trip?”

Vincent is the first one to speak. “We did really well, Doc. The mission was a success!” Realizing what he's just said, his tone softens and trails off. “Erm, for us at BLU. I, uh, sorry.”

Dispelling the awkwardness, Ooshiro says, “The representative for the Badlands BLU team was very polite, and clever, too.”

“Ellen's zhe best,” Alan exclaims. “She's been especially sweet to us.”

“I got to be a Scout,” Mort butts in. “Al, too.”

“Both of you...?” He chuckles. “I'm sure you must have had fun, Morty.”

Mort's about to agree when Alan interjects. “Wait, how do you and Vinci know about Ellen, anyway?” His lips curl up into a catlike smile. “Are you her boyfriend?”

“Was? Of course not! Ellen has been Vincent's therapist since he vas a vee boy. Ve hardly talk much outside of his appointments. Ve're busy vith our own businesses, ja?” Alan pouts in disappointment. “Speaking of vhich, how have you been, Vince?”

Vincent perks up in surprise, then offers a shaky smile. “Oh? Y-yes. I'm doing well.” Turning to the others, he says, “Head back to the base. I'll catch up to you guys later.” They look dismayed at not being able to spend more time with Hartmann, but comply anyway.

From the first second, the Medic-slash-Heavy can tell something is off. Though he's always been a shifty, anxious, and overall unhappy sort, the Scout appears even more so, with his crossed arms and hunched shoulders. Looking closely, Hart instantly recognizes his notorious scratching habit. He places one hand on his shoulder and speaks softly in German. “You don't look so well, Kaninchen. What's going on?”

Vince lets down his guard and answers in tongue, “You wouldn't believe me if I say it.”

“You know I'm always there to support you, no matter what. If you're having problems, you can always come to me. What is it you want to say?”

With a sigh, he continues. “Well, there's this girl, and for a while, we were just friends. But recently, she's become... well, I think I'm in love.”

Hartmann's eyes grow wide in shock, then settle into a wistful look as he pulls Vince closer. “Kaninchen, falling in love is not something you should be afraid of. It's a sign you're becoming a man. Embrace those feelings, tell 'er how you feel! If she turns you down, well, it's better to have love and lost, and however that old cliché goes.”

“That's the thing, Doc, I can't! She's already in love with someone else. And he obviously feels the same way. I can't get between them.”

“Why not? If you like her so much, go get her! Even if your feelings aren't returned, at least you can live, knowing that you told 'er how you feel. Unless there's something deeper going on between you three.”

Vince swallows, apprehensive. “I'm afraid I cannot say much. All I know is she's in danger, and only I can stop it.” He looks up at the good doctor. “Can you do me a favor? Watch over Dante closely. And Luca, too. I need to know what they're up to—for our sake.”

Hartmann's expression grows cold. “I see. I'll keep a close eye on them. But not just for you; I can't trust those lousy bastards even if my life depended on it.” Warming up again, he hugs the Scout and ruffles his hair. “Run along now, little rabbit. Surely, that monkey of a Spy is up to some mischief as we speak.”

After their return, Alan and Mort sneak into the kitchen and raid the cabinets and fridge for ingredients. Flour, eggs, milk, sugar, baking chocolate, and all the other essentials are set up. Because he came up with the idea, Alan assigns himself as head chef. “Mort, do you know anything about baking,” the Spy inquires as he watches his sous chef fumble with the eggs. “If you're having trouble, take a spoon and crack it slightly, like so.” He takes one of the few unbroken eggs and whacks it with the rim of a metal spoon, then pours the yolk into the mixing bowl. “Now you try it.”

Mort takes the spoon and attempts to mimic the Spy's actions. But he underestimates his strength, resulting in an egg that is not so much cracked as shattered, with yolk bleeding all over his hands. “On second thought, I'll handle the eggs. You can mix the batter.”

Once the mixing has finished, Alan pours the batter into each nook of the cupcake tins and slides them into the oven. As the cupcakes are baking, they chat and share funny stories about the other mercs at Teufort and Badlands. The conversation quickly shifts to the morning of Mort's kidnapping, the suddenness of which makes him uneasy. He whispers his thanks when he hears the timer dings, signaling him to rush over and take out the cupcakes. With Alan's instruction, he tests the condition of the cupcakes; they baked to the core, much to their relief. Together, the duo decorates the pastries with the frosting, with varying results, and eats them with huge grins on their faces.

The fun is interrupted, as Ooshiro walks in on them. “Oh, am I interrupting something? Sumimasen. I'll just take what I need and leave—”

All of a sudden, he feels a tug at his sleeve. Latching onto him is Mortimer. “No need for that, mate. There's plenty for all of us. Here, have one!” He lets go and hands Ooshiro one of his own cupcakes.

Noting the pity behind his smile, the Medic accepts. “It's embarrassing for me to admit, but I might need a fork for this. I-I tend to be a bit of a messy eater.”

“Gotcha covered!” Mort runs over to the kitchen and back with a handful of silverware, mainly forks. He gives one to Ooshiro, then takes another and proceeds to break apart his cupcake with it. Intrigued by the idea, Sammy joins in. Alan is the only one who has not picked up on the act.

“Who eats cupcakes with a fork? I think it kind of ruins the fun.” He picks up a cupcake and takes a bite out of it. He glances at Ooshiro, noticing the slow and careful manner in which he eats. Most suspiciously is how he tries his hardest to keep his mouth shut while eating, keeping his teeth from ever revealing themselves. Alan has learned from Luca about various customs in Japan, one of which involves Japanese ladies covering their mouths while laughing or dying their teeth black, so as their teeth do not show. But does it apply to men, as well, or is this guy just a weirdo? “Ooshiro, I bet you have a beautiful smile. Why do you cover yourself up so much?”

The question is an innocent one, but it tempts the Asian doctor into having another mental fit. Resisting his most primal urges, he slips his mask back on and stands up. “I-I'm sorry, but I must go. I just remembered there was something I had to do.” Swiftly, he leaves them behind and heads straight for the locker room.

Removing his work garments and setting the spare clothes stored in his locker aside, he steps into the shower stall. He turns on the water, letting the cool droplets run down his back, its pale skin decorated with an elaborate shark tattoo. With a sigh, he combs his wet hair with his fingers, washing the gel off of it. His body is laced with scars from years of abuse, from friend, foe, and family alike. Staring down at the scars on his arm, he wonders why he even allowed himself to put his trust in anybody. Hell, he doesn't even remember where half of these even came from. Most likely from that dreadful alter ego of his. No, not an alter ego. His other half. The yang to his yin, or something like that. He recalls those days when he discovered his existence.

At the suggestion of his sister, Nasu, Ooshiro started keeping a journal. At first, it acted like a regular journal would be, starting with “Dear diary” and the like. But every once in a while, he would come across a new entry, one written in a rugged scrawl and wretched tone unlike the neat, polite writing he normally used. Over time, he began communicating with this stranger, writing direct messages to him in the journal. Most of the time, he would reply, recording his horrible acts of violence and thoughts of bloodlust. But nothing could compare to that day. That day, when he found his mother and father, along with his younger siblings, lying dead on the floor, and the horrid, familiar scrawl spread throughout two pages of the book, written in blood...

_YOU ASKED FOR THIS, SAME OOSHIRO. THIS WAS WHAT YOU WANTED ALL ALONG._

He almost chokes on his own vomit. He tries to convince himself that what he saw that day was entirely someone else's doing, that he could never do that to his family, regardless of what they've done to him. His becoming a doctor was a decision of his own making, totally not influenced by his desire to atone for his sins. But he cannot deny it any longer: through Hohojirozame's existence, he murdered his own family, and he _enjoyed it_. And all his life choices were not for charity, but for thrills. Try as he might to be an upstanding citizen, deep inside, he is a dirty, rotten sadist.

“Sammy, are you there?” A familiar voice beckons from the other side of the curtain. “Sorry 'bout Al's behavior. He really didn't know any better. But I told him about your, erm, problem, and he understands now.”

Furious, Ooshiro flings open the curtain. “You told him WHAT?!” An awkward pause ensues, as Mort—almost dropping the basket in his hands—stares up and down at the taller man's stocky torso and sizable assets. Ooshiro, flustered, hides behind the curtain. “D-d-don't look! Just give me a moment.” He turns off the faucet, then grabs the tower from the rack beside the stall and wraps it around his waist. “Mort, you should not be telling other people their secrets. You know I'm really sensitive about that. And to Astor-chan, of all people—”

“I know you are. But the sooner Al knows about it, the better. I haven't told him 'bout Mr. Hoho, though, that's up to you.” Having just remembered the item in his possession, he holds it out towards Ooshiro. “By the way, I brought cupcakes! If you want some, that is.”

“Th-thank you. Where's Astor-chan?”

“Oh, he's in my room right now. Said he's not feelin' too well. You think you can take a look at 'im when you can?” He gives a not-so-subtle wink and scoots closer. “Unless you'd rather examine me, hmm?”

“Uh, I should check up on Astor-chan. But you need first aid.” He brushes a finger against Mort's face, which has several cuts running along his jawline. “Did you try to shave?”

The Sniper's cheeks flare up, as his voice turns into a whimper. “Y... Yeah. Thought I'd try a new look. You like it?”

Observing the Australian's countenance, Ooshiro notes the slim, brown hairs lined along his cheekbones, in contrast to his hairless jaw, bushy brows, and feminine lashes. His soft lips so kissable, his eyes like circles of swirling chocolate... He detaches his hand from Mort and averts from him. “It's very, um, _you_. I should tend to Astor-chan. But I'll get first aid for you, too. Thank you.” He graciously accepts the basket and walks away, abandoning his friend.

His head is spinning fast like a whirlwind. His stomach aches, stinging and bloated. A lump in his throat threatens him to lose what little he had just eaten. Worst of all is the tightness in his chest, as if his ribs have shrunken to the point of crushing his lungs and heart, leaving him short of breath. This is a feeling not unfamiliar to Alan; he had suffered from similar pangs in short intervals throughout his known lifetime. Normally, when this sensation starts to arise, he would run over to obtain some aspirin, then rest until the pain lessens. But he had forgotten all about it, and now it's too late to get treatment. All he can do is wait for help. Closing his eyes, he imagines himself—no, Anonyme—and Mort, sharing intimate gestures while flowery, sensual imagery decorates his dreamscape.

A cold feeling touches the center of his breasts. He can almost hear his heart beating, louder and louder. At the same time, his head is burning up like a furnace about to explode. Something familiar lays itself upon his forehead, then his shoulder, and shakes him roughly, jostling him awake. His dreamscape gone, he has returned to the confines of the barracks. Though initially disappointed, he is relieved to see the face of his lover and friend, staring back at him. “Mortimer...”

“Had a good dream?” The Aussie brushes Alan's hair strands away from his face. “We thought we'd lost you for a second there.”

Sitting behind Mort is Ooshiro, with a stethoscope wrapped around his neck. “I sensed an irregular heartbeat, which could be a problem if not treated properly. Then again, perhaps I just caught you at the wrong time.” He stifles a chuckle. “But in all seriousness, you seem to have caught a fever. You'll have to rest up for the day. I can take today off.”

“So will I,” Mortimer adds. “We need each other more than ever. Vince an' the others can handle themselves.”

“Thank you.” Glancing at the Band-aids on Mort's face, Alan mutters, “You shave?”

“Y-yeah. Wanted to try out a new look. How's it look?”

A gentle smile forms from the crack between his lips. “You look younger. It's cute.” Mort mouths his thanks, his eyes wet with tears. Alan cringes in pain, breaking him out of his trance. “Sorry. Can you bring some aspirin?”

“All here,” Ooshiro says as he removes a bottle of painkiller from the first aid kit, then sets both on top of the dresser. “You stay and watch Alan while I get some water.” He leaves without waiting for a reply.

The two of them stay silent, as Mortimer opens the first aid kit to examine its contents. Then, out of nowhere, Alan says, “What happened, Mort? Back at the Badlands base.”

“None of yer business.” He slams the case shut.

“Please. I'm your friend. I live to protect you from harm. That... is my mission.” He gulps and continues. “That test I told you about... the reason why I snuck into your van... It's because of you. I was assigned to watch over you, to observe. But after that first meeting, my feelings changed. Now I want to help you. I want nothing more than to make you happy.”

After a long delay, he sits down next to Alan and finally gives his answer. “The one who kidnapped me turned out to be Valdo. He knocked me out, then dragged me over to... somewhere... and he an' the others tortured me. Knives, fags, whatever they had on hand. Then Dante came. He spoke to me, told me all kinds of crazy stuff. And then he... he...” His heartbeat quickening, he wraps his arms around himself and curls up into a fetal position. “I can't do this anymore. Not with him around. Not like this.” Raising his head, he brushes his fingertips along the sides of his face. “I've lost my last remaining shred of dignity. I broke my promise to Joey. I can't...” Unable to choke back his tears, he lets them flow, trembling as he weeps.

Alan is too weak and tired to get out of bed, but Mortimer's pain is too much to bear. With some effort, he drags himself out to comfort the Sniper. “Don't say another word. Let it all out. I'm here for you. If you broke one promise, then just make another. Make all the promises you can, until your dreams come true. Even though I made a promise to Luca not to get too close to you, I'm making a new promise for myself. Let's make a promise right now. Stay here... for both of us.” Mort's crying slows down, and replies with a nod.

Neither of them speak further, for there is nothing else to be said.


	30. Never Forgive, Never Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life (and conventions) caught up to me and I wasn't able to finish as much as I wanted to last month. But now that I've got some time to myself, here's a new chapter to kick off the month of June.
> 
> (PS: This entry is actually the first half of a chapter that got waaay too long for its own good, so I had to bisect it to make it a more readable length. So if the ending sounds a bit abrupt, I must apologize.)

Downstairs in the infirmary, Vincent scours through the folders hidden away in the filing cabinet. According to theory, the cabinet contains information on just about every person that's ever stepped foot in this office, including Alan. He has known the Spy for little more than a month, so why this sudden attraction to him? Is it his golden locks, when he does show them off? Or is it those deep, blue eyes, bright and sparkling like the ocean? Perhaps it's because of the fact that his features are perfectly symmetrical, down to the last freckle. Whatever the case, Alan has a pleasant aura, one that draws him in somehow. He wants to preserve that beauty any way he can.

“Hello, Vincent,” a voice says, shocking Vince into dropping the papers. Looking up, he shoots back a glare at the young doctor, holding a tray with a porcelain tea set. “I made tea. Would you like some?”

Picking up the papers, he answers with a stern “No.”

“No? I hear this blend is your favorite.” Vince bits his lower lip, then takes one of the cups on the tray.

Setting the cup aside, Vince hurries to file away the sheets. “These files are confidential, only meant to be seen by other Medics. But my relations to Hartmann give me special access.”

“You're looking up those files for Alan, yes? Now, before you start arguing, it should be noted that I, too, am a Medic. Therefore, I can not only access Astor-chan's files, but understand and treat his symptoms, as well.” The Scout furrows his brows, but Ooshiro interrupts him before he can start. “But that doesn't mean you cannot help, as well. You can help fetch the medicine and whatever Astor-chan might need, and I can teach you a thing or two. How about it?” Smiling underneath his mask, he holds up his teacup.

“Become your assistant, or lose my chance with Alan...” With hesitance, he picks up his cup and taps it against Ooshiro's. “Fine. But if you harm her even once, I'm cutting you off, regardless of Hartmann's orders.”

The doctor slips the mask down and sips on his tea. “Going against your father's orders to pursue your own interests,” he says with a humorous tone. “How selfish.” Vince does not answer, preferring to drink in silence. Regardless, Ooshiro takes the Scout's lack of reply well—this moment, peaceful and light, is already working its magic.

When Ooshiro finally returns to the room, he finds Mortimer, curled up at the foot of Alan's bed. Alan is awake, gently stroking his chestnut-colored hair. “H-hello, Astor-chan. I didn't expect you to be up.”

“It's alright. I couldn't sleep, anyway.” He smiles sadly, glancing at the Medic; it's clear that his attention lies elsewhere. “Mort's been greatly affected by zhe incident back in Badlands. He may act like a complete goofball, but zhere's a lot on his shoulders. More zhan I ever would have expected.”

“Don't worry about it too much. Badlands has affected all of us.” He offers Alan some tea, which he accepts. “With all that RED's been doing, I would be surprised if you didn't feel bad.” Swiping the cup meant for Mortimer, Ooshiro takes a swig. “I mean, you had to deal with that-that thing of theirs—”

“That 'thing' was anything but,” Alan interjects, dropping his accent as his voice rises. “He had a name, and a family, and a life, and...” He stops, drinking his tea. He can still remember that Sunday all too clearly.

The morning started off peacefully—no sudden break-ins or kidnappings, like what happened to Mort the day before. The previous shipments were signed and agreed to ship to Teufort the following day. Everything was thought to go perfectly... until the PA announced a stalemate. In this perpetual stalemate of a game, losses were expected to happen every once in a while. But when the troopers made their reports to Ellen, they knew something was up. The second group of nine enter the field, and one by one, they were shot down and sent back to base, as if by some invisible force. They suspected Snipers were the cause, due to the manner in which they died, but Ellen brushed off the idea, believing that the REDs would not be so foolish as to arm their entire front lines with sharpshooters, even if they were competent. Then Ellen herself got shot while trying to heal one of her members, and confirmed their theory.

“Alan, I need you to do something very important,” she told him. Alan's first mission in ages! The mission was straightforward: while the others capture the central control point, sneak into RED's base and take out any immediate threats in the vicinity, allowing BLU's team to proceed safely. Hopeful about the outcome, he jumped at the chance. Sneaking in was easy, thanks to his cloaking device, but the hard part happened once he was inside. Whipping out his revolver, he searched the area for any members hiding about. But as he searched, he found nobody. No Pyros waving their flamethrowers around, no Scouts running about, no Heavies or Medics or Soldiers.  _No one._

While the Spy could try to rationalize the lack of focus on obtaining the other control points in favor of throwing the match, he could not figure out why they would do such a thing. RED had done some self-destructive actions of late, especially when their primary healer's not around, and this time was no exception. Based on the reconnaissance he had done, he concluded that the only other man around was the Sniper. His legs quivering in trepidation, he approached the final control point.

Logically, the Sniper should have been able to knock out enemy forces early on, using the balcony from one of the lesser buildings as a roost. But they didn't bother to guard the central or even their second control point. Instead, they opted to put all their forces on the fifth and final point, hidden deep within their base. Discounting the more obvious strategic disadvantages in relying on a Sniper to guard a control point in an open, low-leveled building, there was the mystery of why they would go for such a strategy in the first place.  _It's obviously a trap_ —Alan knew— _now it's just a matter of tripping the wire._

_CLICK!_

Alan swiveled, his revolver ready to fire. But instead, he froze up. The figure before him had most of his body obscured, almost deliberately, with one sleeve rolled down his arm and the other sporting a thick, leather glove. The rustic gray cloth headwear—a keffiyeh, Alan believed the name was—covered his face, only revealing his sharp, two-colored eyes that seemed to glow from beneath the shadows. In his hands, he wielded a steely black submachine gun. The two of them stood, frozen in place, waiting for the other to make the first move. After an undetermined amount of time, the Spy pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in the Sniper's head. The man laid on the ground, blood flowing in a puddle. Alan stepped back, but dared not turn away—for he knew that man. “I-Igor?”

According to SPAI's records, Igor Volkov was a Sniper that worked at RED for several years. Alan himself recalled his frequent visits to the institution, often with the excuse of tutoring the young blonde in general subjects, but with the added benefit of meeting up with an old friend. He remembered him fondly, for he at one point had a fleeting crush on him. Things took a downturn seven years ago, when he met his mysterious and gruesome demise. Yet there he was in present day, a patchwork man created from the parts of various corpses. His eyes, once uniquely hazel, were since replaced, one cornflower blue and the other reddish brown. His face, once fleshy and handsome, became emaciated and covered in stitches and scars. A corpse, reanimated.

Part of him wanted to bend down and kiss his face, however pale and dead it was. But then he was reminded of his mission, and began to approach the checkpoint. As the light at the center of the point gradually transitioned from red to blue, an arm wrapped around Alan's shoulders, a blade brushing against his throat. Shocked, he dropped his gun, and his captor's boot kicked it out of reach. The Spy struggled to no avail.

“I cannot let you win, Anonyme,” the captor said, his voice low and raspy, as he threw Alan on the ground, away from the checkpoint. Igor, the patchwork man, pinned the Spy down on his back and held him at blade-point. There was a slight delay in his actions, as if hesitant or slow to react. Still, Alan needed to act, and act fast.

Digging through his inventory, he whipped out... his sapper? Whatever, at least it'll make a good diversion. He kneed Igor in the gut, then shoved the radio-like device against his chest, providing a shield between the two. With the sapper attached to him, the Sniper began to twitch and writhe, loosening his hold over the Spy while he slowly malfunctioned. Taking the large, curved blade in his hand, he stabbed himself repeatedly, uttering the phrase “Never resting, always suffering” in Russian with every strike. The knife penetrated through his breast, spewing blood, and his body convulsed wildly before slumping. As tears streamed down his eyes, he muttered with his last breath, “I can finally... rest in peace.”

Alan cannot recall what happened after that. He can only assume he stepped on the point and won the match. But none of that matters, not anymore. Even now, he does not understand what happened back then, but the memory of it sends shivers down his spine. All he knows is that he watched an old friend of his kill himself, suffering to the very end. Judging by his lack of reaction, Ooshiro must be feeling the same way after hearing the story.

“I cannot believe anybody would do such a thing,” he says with a quiver. “Bringing people back from the dead? It's like something from an old horror story. It's terrifying, and yet, fascinating!”

“It's nothing unusual, if you think about it,” Alan replies. “We come back from the dead everyday. But Igor, he was different. More like Frankenstein's monster than anything we've been through.” He sighs. “If only I had more time to inspect zhe body. Maybe then, I would have found some answers.” His heart starts to ache—literally. He winces at the tightening feeling within his breast.

Ooshiro rushes over to tend to him. “Astor-chan, please, don't stress yourself. Get some rest. I'll be here if you need anything.” With gentle urging from the doctor, Alan closes his eyes to rest. For a while, Ooshiro watches the young Spy sleep peacefully. He looks delicate and beautiful, like a princess from an old fairy tale, and his soft lips are ripe for the picking. The Medic leans over for a kiss, but holds back, a twinge of pain throbbing in his brain.

_I take it you don't appreciate my rudeness_ , he thinks to himself—or rather, his other self.  _Of course not_ , he—his dominant self—interjects.  _But Astor-chan, he's so beautiful... I have to kiss him, at least once!_  His other self answers,  _Just listen to yourself! As if you weren't already a freak of nature, you're becomin' an outright stalker._  He retorts, _I don't care anymore! I'm gonna do it. You just watch._

The tall doctor closes his eyes, then slowly goes for the kill—er, kiss. His lips barely brush against Alan's when he freezes up. He glances at Mort, still asleep on his friend's lap, the guilt starts flooding in.  _I can't do it_. He pulls back and exits the room to clear his head. _I just can't do it._

A few days pass, with the weather becoming worse and worse. At first, it was merely some cloudy days with an occasional drizzle, but by the end of the week, it's become a full-blown thunderstorm. To put a damper on things, there is no assigned mission for them, leading to a dull day for everyone. Everyone except Pasha, that is. Pasha loves rainy days; he can finally read the books he left piling up on his bedside. But he has also come to love it for another reason.

He knocks on the bedroom door. “Alan? Are you ready?”

The door opens, and Alan pokes his head through. “Ready for what?”

“You will find out soon. Come.”

He hands him a rain jacket, then escorts him out to the town, largely barren save for the occasional car and drifter. The general architecture varies from run-down shack to industrial towers, a mishmash of structures that stood the test of time and transcended the class-based divisions of typical society, while still appearing completely normal. Somehow, someway, Teufort resembles both a desert town found in Westerns and a budding city, and it is that sort of visual patchwork that Pasha finds so appealing. Especially the part of town that they're in: the old warehouse sector, long abandoned by Mann Co., has since become a bustling bazaar for the creative-minded. From hats to guns to unusual critters, this place has everything. “This is Steam Workshop. People make products to show off to fellow craftsmen. Every once in a while, Mann Co. employees would come by and offer contracts to items they find promising. Then those items become part of Mann Co. catalog.”

The Spy, mesmerized by his surroundings, is thrown off-course by Pasha's explanation. “Wait. You mean these things can get picked up and bought by other people? For real?” He picks up a rectangular device, labeled “Explodo-Sapper”, and stares at it in amazement. “Pasha, I have an idea! We can make our own thingy, for zhe workshop!”

The large man almost drops the weapon he was holding. “Workshop? Alan, I don't think you understand. This is hard work, and the chances of it making a profit is—” He stops speaking, distracted by something spotted from within his peripheral vision. “Is that... Dante?”

Al turns around and gasps. Indeed, there he is, the oversized doctor, standing alongside Hartmann, the two engaged in some sort of conversation. The Spy's hand instinctively moves over to press the button on his cloaking watch, only to remember that he had not brought it along. Watch or no watch, he has a case to settle. “Bonjour, mes ami,” he chirps as he approaches the two gentlemen. “My, what a coincidence, running into you,  _Mallory_. How have you been without us?” His smile grows as Hartmann cringes at mention of his name.

“Hallo, Alan,” Dante says in a chipper tone. “Such a pleasure meeting you in person. Luca has told me all about you. He's even told me about your most recent performance—such cleverness!” He holds out his hand. “I'm sure you already know about me, but I am an old friend of Mallory's.” Hartmann winces, tightening his grip on a workshop-made hat. “Ve used to fight in zhe var together. If you can spare zhe time, perhaps I can tell you a few tales over dinner.”

Alan reluctantly accepts the man's hand. “It'll be a pleasure. In fact, I have been meaning to talk to you. And you, too, O'Malley.” Hartmann looks on the verge of tearing that hat apart.

“I have an idea. How about you join us for lunch at Kanpai's? My treat.”

“Zhat would be perfect! How about you, Pash-Pash?”

Pasha averts his gaze, deep in thought. His eyes shift to the stout Medic, his blood red eyes smiling, then stares downward. “Da. Let's go.”


	31. Whispered Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight time gap between the last chapter and this one, but I managed to get this second chapter out here in time. Anywho, this chapter is made to add a bit of closure to some of the issues brought up in the previous chapter (and a couple from before then), though it brings up some new mysteries, too. Not much else to mention.

As Alan sets off for the restaurant, Mortimer is just about to head back into town. The night before, he had another nightmare—his third one since his return from Badlands—and the chill permeating the room intensified, his skin pale and sticky and shivering. His head throbbing, he moved himself into his camper van, where he remained until morning. The rain has kept him from wandering about freely, but within the comforts of his vehicle, he can travel to the barren desert outside of Teufort, in a deliberate attempt to isolate himself for a while. During that time frame, he has forgotten about basic needs, such as hunger and thirst, and can concentrate on more peaceful activities, like reading. Mort hardly had a chance to crack open the book that Alan gave him, and now seems like a better time than never.

The story starts off rather straightforward—boy has an argument with his father, runs away, and lives off the forest itself—but grows more convoluted and violent over time. The young boy gets attacked by increasingly threatening monsters—the descriptions too frightening for a regular children's book—makes discoveries that are neither touched upon nor proven useful in the long run, and even the text itself becomes more typo-riddled and difficult to read. But somehow, despite the questionable content and quality, Mort cannot stop reading; some part of his subconscious begs for him not to, despite his trembling hands. The words on the page, the way they jump to him, they feel familiar somehow.

After finishing the last page, he closes the book and looks at the cover.  _Dr. Zoyce._  The name alone brings a smile to his face. Of course he would recognize it. Dr. Zoyce's books were some of his favorites as a small boy. The adventures his characters go on, the worlds they visit, they resemble all of Mort's deepest childhood fantasies. All his protagonists he related to somehow, some more than others. But this book, it brings back memories. Good, bad, exciting, mundane—every last word triggers them.

The one disappointing aspect of this new story is the ending—or lack thereof. What happened to the hero after he got eaten by that monster? Did he die? Did he live? It's unnerving to even think about it.

A loud rumble echoes from the pit of his empty stomach. How long has he been out there? His watch is no use—it's just as dead as it had been since his first arrival in Teufort. So why does he keep this old thing? Jumping behind the wheel, he tosses out the watch and drives back to town. He considers going to another eatery for a change, but his mind keeps jumping back to Kanpai's. The place has good food and all his closest friends go there. But he cannot head straight there. Not without him.

Joey has been cooped up in his apartment all day, finishing up his entry for the Mann Co. catalog. The forts may have closed up for the day, but Mann Co. stops for no one. He carefully types up the last few words when a loud knock startles him into adding an extra letter at the end. From a distance, he can hear a voice calling his name. “Coming.” He opens the front door. “Mort? What're you doing here?” Examining the drenched man before him, he steps aside. “You look like hell. Go wash up.”

Mort takes a quick shower and changes into a fresh set of clothes provided by Joey. The colorful OZ-brand T-shirt is several sizes too big, but the sand-colored shorts (which the taller Aussie outgrew years ago) and underwear fit better than expected. Joey himself—with a subtle change in hairstyle, clean-shaven jaw, and light makeup application to cover up his scars—looks striking. “I put your clothes in the wash. You can wait here until they're done.”

“Huh? I was thinking about goin' to Kanpai's with you.”

“Oh. Well, I go there all the time, so...” He glances at Mort's dejected look and sighs. “I suppose we can go. I need to run a few errands on the way over.”

After dropping off his manuscript, Joey drives the BLU Sniper over to the red Oriental-style building. One of the waitresses, instantly recognizing his face, points them to his usual table and takes their order. Joey decides to order something light and—in a shocking twist—Mort asks for the same thing. The blonde knows Mort better than anyone, and he knows for a fact that he'll never go on a diet, especially for no good reason. He stays quiet, letting the other lead the conversation. Mortimer talks about the fun he had at Badlands, all the nice people he met, and the unique situations the station leader brought him into. But something about the whole thing seems off. His smile is chipper as ever, but his tone comes across as forced and stiff compared to his natural voice. He's also hardly touched his food; the old Mort would be talking and eating at the same time.

It seems that he has noticed, as he starts eating the remainder. “But enough about me. I'm sure you had even more fun than I did.” The bites he takes are slow and careful, as if lost in thought the entire time.

“I can't say I did anything unusual. We had a couple of new recruits over the weekend, though, so it's a nice change of pace. I think you'd like them if you met 'em; they're good people.” A nod, but no other reply. “Er, I've been thinking 'bout writing a new book. My last foray into adult writing hadn't been very successful, so I took a break from it 'til I got back up on my feet. What changed my mind was...”

“Mortimer Mundy! Vhat a sight for sore eyes.” Mort jumps at the sound of that voice, then nervously turns to face them. Platinum blond hair, rotund body, red eyes—the exact traits he's wanted to avoid. “Out on a date vith your boyfriend?” The BLU Sniper growls at him, but stops the moment he spots his blue-vested ally standing within view. “Funny story, zhis is. I just so happened to have bumped into Herr Astor und his pal earlier. Zhey certainly are an intriguing und intelligent duo.”

“I've been talking with Dante about Badlands, and—”

“Nein, nein. I vould rather say it myself.” Dante stares down at the Sniper. “I vish to make a truce.”

Everyone's jaws drop. But Mort, whose glare is locked on to those red eyes, is amazingly calm. “What kind of truce?”

Losing his default serenity, Dante's voice drops to a grim baritone. “I have no power to abolish zhe var between our respective groups, but zhe least I can do is varn you about zhe dangers you're about to face.” He breaks his gaze to glimpse at Joey and Alan. “I vould prefer to speak vith you alone, if you vould please.” Wary, they step away and out of sight, giving the old man access to the seat across from Mort. “As I'm sure you're aware by now, your family may be in danger. Your father, it vould appear, has gotten himself in a bit of a bind. Sold his medicine to zhe wrong customer, und now zhey are out for his blood. Out for  _yours_ , as vell.”

“Why would they want me? I'm not all that special.”

“Ah, but you are. Far more special zhan you vould ever expect. Und it's not just because of your connections to your father. No... Some have come to believe zhat you are vhat connects mankind to zhe great beyond—vhat some have taken to call der Übermensch. You do not know it now, but you have great potential vithin you. Once you unlock zhat potential, you vill gain access to unlimited power. You vill be vorshipped, you vill be feared. But most importantly,  _you vill be loved_.”

Mort freezes up, unable to speak. Thoughts and memories flow through his psyche, motivated by those very words. If he can unlock these “powers”, he will never have to worry about upsetting or offending anybody.  _Even Dad will love me again. And Joey..._  “What's the catch?”

“Zhe only catch is Alan must not know about zhis. If he learns about your father's work, he will undoubtedly use zhat intelligence to serve his own needs. He may be your ally, but in zhe end, he is still Luca's child. One must never trust a Spy.”

“What about Vinci and Doc and—”

“Vincent und Hartmann have close connections vith Frau Etranger, und she to SPAI. For zhe benefit of everyone, it is best zhat you tell not a soul.” Mort's brows furrow with worry, as Dante digs out something from the confines of his coat and slaps it on the table. “I found zhis in zhe back alley. You should be lucky it vas not Luca who found it.”

Mort picks up the object—a golden, palm-sized hair clip in the abstract shape of a flower. “Zhen-y's missing clip! Why didn't you give it to 'im when you found it?”

“Zhat boy knows too much. He vould find it too suspicious if I gave it to him directly. So I'm handing zhe responsibility over to you. But zhis is not merely out of laziness. I vant to earn your trust; if you trust me enough to do zhis simple task, zhen surely, I can trust you.” His grim demeanor cracks, returning to its gentle form. “I vant to help you, Mortimer. You may not have known me for long, but I... you're like a son to me.”

Gripping the clip tightly, Mort stands up. “Let's make this clear, old man: I'm doing this for my friends,  _not_  for you. So don't go thinking I'm your little errand boy, got it?” He does not bother to wait for a reply—not that he would care what he has to say.

Heading out of the building, Alan continuously pesters Mort for any sort of gossip material, only to receive a snarl or biting remark. After the third time, he shuts up completely. Dante reunites with Hartmann and disappears before the Spy can utter a word, and Pasha's mood after his conversation with the ex-Medic has him feeling as dreary as the weather. Coming in, he thought he could get some answers regarding what happened in Badlands, but all he's getting now is the cold shoulder.

Joey opens the back door of his vehicle. “Oi. You need a ride?”

Alan blinks, bewildered. “Sure. But can you do me a quick favor?” Then, with a sorrowful look in his eyes, he says, “Take me to Igor's grave.”

Despite having already paid his respects, Joey complies and drives the four of them over to the cemetery. Chills run through the Spy's back, a result of both the icy winds and the eerie atmosphere, an array of tombstones set under a dark, cloudy sky. The cemetery is not large enough to get lost in, but with all the numerous casualties, unexpected and otherwise, that occur within the city limits, it is growing in size by the day. Alan finds it distressing to imagine attending a funeral even once, let alone on a daily basis.

As it turns out, there is one such funeral in progress. The name on the grave looks familiar—Minnie Orwell. While not exactly friends, he knew of Minnie's existence by skimming through the enormous database of recruits, some of the info which is barely hidden from view in the infirmary. She was a medical student hired by BLU for her exceptional grades and healing skills; having come from a poor family, she most likely accepted the job for the paycheck, which exceeds even that of a doctor's. He glances at the dates engraved.  _She wasn't that much older than me..._

Present at the burial is Duncan, dressed all in black. Standing next to him is a tall, rose-haired woman, in a conservative dress that barely hides her more notable assets. Alan vaguely recognizes her from the battlefield—it's hard to miss someone with pink hair—but knows nothing about her otherwise. A few other members of BLU are also there, including Carly, her tear-filled eyes betraying her stony face. And off in the distance, watching like a hawk, is Luca Petrinni.

Al clings to Pasha's arm and drags him along. He glances every once in a while, curious about Luca's presence, until their eyes meet. It barely lasts a second, but it has a lasting effect. Head throbbing, grip tightening, breath quickening. The fear instilled within him threatens to turn him haywire, restrained by the larger man's presence and his own tenuous will.

They eventually reach Igor's grave, where Joey whispers something unintelligible before moving aside. Alan digs through his pockets and takes out a photo. Pictured is the three of them: Luca, Igor, and himself at thirteen. “Sorry this is so old. It's the only one I could find.” He sets it down at the base of the tombstone. “I want you to remember who you were before. Before you...” Tears roll down his freckled cheeks, and he wipes them away. “Back then, you were always keeping an eye out on me, telling me to be strong and be myself. Well, I made a similar promise to somebody, told him to be strong. There have been times when I was afraid of breaking both your promises, yet here I am. And I'll keep on living and making promises until everyone I care about is happy. It won't be easy, especially with my ailments, but I want to do it. No, I  _have_  to.” Fingers touching the engraved letters, he continues. “Let me make a promise to you now. I'll bring back your body. I'll do whatever it takes, even if it means grabbing them piece by piece! And then—maybe—you and I can finally rest.”

Pasha raises his brow. “That is... unusually passionate, coming from you.”

Alan jumps up and puts his hands to his hips. “Are you saying I'm not passionate?”

“Nyet! It just... you sounded more like Mortimer back there. Stubborn, idealistic, perhaps melodramatic. But it still had that air of you. I, um...” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck while his cheeks flush a bright pink.

Seeing the Heavy so flustered puts a smile on the Spy's face. “Don't say anymore. I understand completely.” Wrapping his arms around one of Pasha's, he turns to tell Joey, “We'll be walking from here. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Buckman.”

Joey watches the couple walk off, then turns his attention back to Mort. “He's right, you know. You are a lot like that. I think you're rubbin' off on yer friend there.” He pauses, waiting for a reply, but gets nothing.

After Alan left, Mort took his place, and is now kneeling before the grave, staring down at the drenched photo. This man, whose face shared a resemblance to the patchwork Sniper he ran into the other day in Badlands. This man, whose frame he hacked and slashed and stabbed in vengeance for attempting to kill his ally on the Control Point. This man, whose name stings, knowing now the significant weight that burden his best friends' hearts.

Mimicking Alan's earlier actions, he makes his own promise, but in silence.  _I will take out the man that ruined you. I'll do worse to him than what he did to you. And I'll do what it takes to keep Alan—no, anyone—from sharing that fate. That's my word, and I'm stickin' to it._


	32. Boulevard of Broken Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uploaded this on Tumblr the day before I left for Tampa, but now that I've recovered enough from my trip (I was working at a big convention the entire weekend), I can finally post it elsewhere, too.
> 
> In the meantime, I'd like to make a brief apology for the atrocious pacing in recent chapters. I've been running on fumes and what few ideas I have for the long run, so at this point, I really am sort of pantsing it. (The complexity of the plot and average length of the chapters don't help, either.) But whatever the case, I plan on clearing up a few loose threads in upcoming chapters, so hopefully things will get straightened out in the long run.

Ah, Teufort. A lovely, rustic little town. Founded in 1890, the town had grown into a thriving city—one that is unidentified by most maps. That is because of the many secrets hidden beneath its surface. Deep underground, at the end of this long hallway is one of Teufort's biggest mysteries. One that its gatekeeper would prefer to keep as such. The keeper's name? Well, most know her as The Administrator.

“You're late. Again.” Sitting in the midst of a dark room, lit only by the blue light of the computer screens, displaying security footage of everything that goes on within the countless facilities belonging to RED and BLU, is a sharp-edged woman, clad in purple. She must be just as old as him, yet much of her hair—graying as it is—remains dark as night. Talk about aging gracefully. “On top of your perpetual tardiness, your numerous breaches of contract have me on edge for far too long. If not for your frequent contributions to Team Fortress Industries, I would have had you eliminated ages ago.”

“Helen, please do forgive me. I am only doing vhat is best for zhe company.”

“The intelligence I have gathered tells otherwise.” With a snap of her fingers, The Administrator summons her servant, a bookish-looking young lady in purple. The woman hands her a manila folder and steps aside. “Performing unauthorized experiments, reviving the dead, dealing with the devil... Your list of moral and legal infractions is even longer than Santa's 'naughty' list. Whatever it is you're up to, it better be good.”

“'Good'? It's only the secret to true power. Imagine not having to hook up to a machine to barely survive. Vith my research, you never have to worry about growing old or ill. If it proves successful, the entire vorld vill be at your feet. Cave Johnson has considered my offer; vhy not you?”

Helen sits there, frozen and unreadable. “Alright, then. You may continue your research. But if you so much as think about  _betraying_  me, I will see to it you shall work as a test subject for Aperture Science for all eternity.”

“Ja, ja. I'll get right to it.” He turns to the door, then looks over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a deep growl. “In fact, my latest experiment is vell undervay.”

Above the surface, Mortimer Mundy is rudely awakened by a loud, tinny ringing noise. “So much for a peaceful night's rest,”, he groans as he moves sluggishly out of bed. The unusually large bed, with no bunk to hit his head against this morning. Looking around, he finds himself in a cozy room, with a bookshelf and a desk and a typewriter. Hung up on a wall is a cutesy calendar, decorated in pastel creatures and scribbled-down times and deadline notices. “MANN CO. CATALOGUE DUE”, one note in red states. Unable to connect the dots just yet, he shuts off the alarm.

The door opens, startling Mort into turning around. “'Morning,” says Joey, his gruff voice like music to his ears. “I brought you over to my place to get something, when you crashed on the bed. I'm only letting you get away with this just once, so don't get used to it.”

Mort sniffs the air, catching a whiff of pan-fried bacon and eggs. Even in his recent state, he cannot resist the smell of bacon. “Food!”

Joey chuckles. “Yeah, Zhen-y's cookin' in the kitchen. Good to know you still recognize good food.” He ruffles the smaller Sniper's brown hair. “Let's talk more at the table.”

The two of them meet up with Zhen as he serves them bacon and fried eggs with golden-brown toast and green tea on the side. Looking at the food before him creates a nauseous feeling in the pit of Mort's stomach, but he ignores it for his own good. “So, whaddaya wanna talk about?”

“The hair dec, of course.” Mort almost spits out his drink. “I found it in your pocket after you burnt out. Dante gave it to you, didn't he?”

Gulping down his mouthful, he whimpers, “Y-yes. How didja know?”

“Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. So what's got you eating out of his hand?”

“I ain't—”

“If there's one thing I know 'bout Dante, it's the fact that he's a manipulative scumbag. He's totally got dirt on you, so spill.”

With great reluctance, he recounts his conversation with the RED Medic, glossing over various details in the process. The end result is vague, brief, and overall unsatisfying. “I promised not to tell anyone about it. Sorry.” Joey gives no reply, save for a grim stare. “But at least Zhen-y got his hair clip back.”

“I suppose so.” He averts his gaze to hide the concern in his eyes. “We obviously can't meet up like this during work hours, but if you ever need a hand, you're welcome to drop by our flat whenever. I can make a spare key later today and hand it over to you in the morning.”

“You don't have ta do that—”

“I can't take any chances. Danny's clearly up to something, so you need constant surveillance.”

Zhen butts in with: “Plus, you've been acting funny. Before, you used to smile and jump around a lot. Now you're all mopey, and you wanna be alone all the time. And you hardly eat anything.”

_Huh? I don't act like that... or do I?_  “Well, I've been awfully tired lately. Ain't no big deal.”

“It is to me! I can't have you bein' a killjoy like Joey.”

“Oi, who're you callin' a killjoy? C'mere, you!” He puts Zhen into a headlock and rubs his knuckles against his head while the poor child struggles to escape his grasp. But despite their rough manners, they clearly are having fun. Mort stares longingly at this bonding moment between the two. When was the last time he smiled like that?

He stands up and swipes a slice of toast from his plate. “I'd better get to work. 'Ooroo, mate!” Walking out, his mind starts to race.  _I wonder what Al's up to. With all that big talk of 'is, I bet he's got something big!_

Deep in the Teufort barracks is a storage room, dark and steely. Row upon row of Sentries and Dispenser parts line the walls, with wooden crates and cardboard boxes stuffed into a corner or two. The lighting is poor, with only a lamp on a desk providing a proper light source. On the desk are blueprints for various devices and the tools with which to make them. The desk—and the rest of the room—clearly belongs to the team's Engineer, but the blueprints are done by somebody else's hand.

Picking apart the Sapper in his hands, Alan examines and replaces each piece with great care. He mutters unintelligible commentary, and tosses them aside. His nimble hands tremble as they handle the device. A slip of the wrist causes a piece to jump out and bounce into the surrounding darkness.  _A minor setback_ , he reassures himself as he continues. A loud knock on the door breaks Al's concentration, causing the whole thing to fall apart. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

The door opens, and Vincent walks in. “Sorry. I wasn't aware.” He glances at Alan, then the mess of a machine in his hands. “Fixing up your Sapper?”

“Modifying it, actually,” Alan says, sighing in shame. “But I can't get anything to work right. Maybe I should just give up.”

“Nonono! Don't give up! Maybe you just need a break. Ooshiro made tea in the lounge.” Staring at the Spy's face, he notices dark bags under his eyes. “Were you working all night?” He nods. “Oh, dear. You should head off to bed. There's no reason you should be awake for that long. Here, let me help you.” Vince rushes over to clean up the Sapper bits and escort him out.

“Th-thank you,” the Spy says meekly. “You probably think I'm acting silly now, don't you?”

“No, of course not! Not many people can deal with machines like this. Heck, I'm a guy, and I don't know jack about these things. So what if you're a girl? This is a really useful skill to have.” He pauses, realizing what he just said, then slaps himself in the face. “Sorry, Al. I just looked at you and—well, I keep thinking you're a girl.”

Alan laughs, airy and light. “No need to apologize. I get that a lot. You can call me whatever you like.”

“Oh, um, okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But if your name is Alan, and I call you a girl, then—”

“—it does not matter either way. Alan is but a name given to me by Monsieur Petrinni. I have no real name of my own. At least, none that I am aware of.”

“You don't have a name, yet you take a random name because your mentor gave it to you. Won't that make him your dad?”

“Something like that. He doesn't like it when I call him that. He prefers being called  _Sir_  Petrinni. I think he's embarrassed to be associated with me.”

_What kind of father is that?_  Vince wants to say. Instead, he replies, “I don't think he's embarrassed. He's probably urging you to try harder. You've got talent, even he can see that.” Glancing at the disassembled Sapper in the Spy's hands, he continues. “Just keep working on what you're doing, and you can build something that will jump him off his pants! No, wait, that didn't come out right.” His confidence waning, he starts scratching the back of his head again.

Alan smiles, delicate and feminine like his voice. “Thank you. I don't remember the last time somebody told me that.”

They finally reach the lounge entrance, which is left wide open. A tea set is left out on the counter, and Ooshiro can be seen sipping on a cup himself. “Ohayō,” he greets in an unusually cheerful manner. “Busy with work, Astor-chan? Please, allow me.” He sets aside his drink to serve them. “I hope you don't mind green tea.”

“It's no problem at all.” He takes a sip. “Wow! This is delicious!”

“Thank you. It's an old family recipe, for energy and good health. It also helps with digestion.” He chuckles nervously. “But considering all you've been through recently, I thought it would help you relax and approach the day with a smile.”

While drinking the tea, Vincent takes Ooshiro's words into consideration.  _He's doing an awful lot for Alan. What have I done to help?_  He gulps down the last bit and slams it on the tabletop. “I'm heading out. I'll be back by the next match.” He waves goodbye as he walks out the door.

Out on the street, Mortimer is heading back towards the BLU fortress. Or he would, had he not spaced out and taken a wrong turn along the way. But he doesn't mind too much; this detour gives him a rare opportunity to explore parts of the city he overlooked. Trekking onward, the commercial area gives way to the outskirts, the buildings gradually becoming smaller and more dilapidated with every block he passes. From the pointed roofs and chimneys, Mort can only assume he is in the residential area.  _But wasn't I just there?_

Though the houses are clumped close together, the population appears sparse, with shady figures strutting about. A group of these figures whisper strange phrases, very few of which Mort is familiar with. Then one of them starts approaching him. “'Ello, mate,” they said, their accent clearly from Down Under. “Yer lookin' a bit high-strung. Howsabout you relax to summa this?” They pull a small paper bag from their pocket. “All-natural, straight from Oz. 'Ave ya heard of poppy flowers? Great stuff, poppies. Ya mix 'em right, you can make all kindsa stuff. Tastes sweet, too.” The figure grins, crooked teeth in full display. “So how 'bout it? Willing t' buy?”

Mortimer's vocal chords are paralyzed. He knows full well the benefits of poppy flowers. Simple, beautiful flora which create seeds that induce a pain-reducing effect. However, as proven in the recent past, it also can be abused as a crude drug and sold for illicit profits. His father had taught him that much, and also told him repeatedly not to trust suspicious-looking people. Though personal experience has taught him otherwise, Mort knows without a doubt that this person cannot be trusted. “Sorry, mate. Maybe another time.”

“Oh? Are you sure about that?” The figure pulls out a gun and points it at his head. “Yer workin' for Teufy, right? Everybloke here knows you men are loaded. So fork over a few bucks 'n' nobody gets hurt.”

The other figures start circling him, backing him up into a wall. “I'm sorry, mate, but you got the wrong guy. I spent my last paycheck on yesterday's lunch. I don't have a cent on me!” He pulls his pockets inside-out. “See? Nothing!”

The shady stranger scoffs. “You think you can pull one on me?” He fires a bullet inches away from the Sniper's ear. “Gimme yer money, or yer li'l lady friend gets it!”

_Lady friend? He doesn't mean..._  “No. Not Al. Anything but...!”

“Yeah, yer li'l Spy friend's been on our radar fer quite a while now. Der Fuhrer don't want that spook creepin' about any longer. He didn't offer crap fer our services, so we're lookin' to get our due. So how about it? You lookin' to pay up?”

Cornered and on the verge of actual death, Mort has to think fast. Fight or flight? Should he try to outsmart them? No, he's not smart enough for that. He can try fighting back, but it's four against one, with a greater chance of failure. His breath runs quick and shallow. Vision blurs. He felt this once before, this feeling of helplessness. Recently, in fact. And they mentioned that name—Der Fuhrer, the last words he heard before Dante went and destroyed him from the inside. “I'll pay you yer due, alright,” he answers, shooting daggers at the crowd. “Take my life instead... if you can try!”

A swift motion removes the gun from the assailant's hand, and the game begins. They throw a punch—miss. Mort knees them in the gut, sending them airborne and crashing against the wall of an unfortunate shack. The other three henchmen throw themselves at him, and fists fly. He manages to dodge and block every last one, retaliating with a punch or kick. It takes out a great deal of his energy, but he eventually knocks them out cold. The original gunholder, writhing in pain, begs for mercy. But Mort is in no mood for that. He takes the bag—which was thrown aside and almost lost during the fight—then, with his inhuman leg strength, he kicks and stomps on their face, not stopping until their skull is crushed and their blood carpets the ground.

As he walks away from the scene, the adrenaline wears off, and he is left frozen in shock. He just killed a man in cold blood, and for once, Respawn isn't going to work. Try as he may to rationalize it—“He deserved it, he was a bloody bastard, he wanted to kill Al”—nothing he can come up with can undo his actions. The worst part? He  _enjoyed_  it! However brief the moment was, he felt a thrill bashing their heads in, even outright murdering them. It's not the first time he killed a man, even up close like that, but the very thought that such potential and bloodlust exists inside him is what sickens him most. His head throbbing from overexertion, he leans against a wall and passes out.

Meanwhile, watching from afar is another figure, cloaked in red. He moves with an awkward gait, his eyes both focused and aimless, and his hand grips tightly to a cleaver. He approaches the unconscious man, then leans over to inspect his face. “So this is what he wanted all along. Not Alan, not even me. All along, he wanted you. The only question is, why?” Brushing aside the mussed-up hair reveals the naked skin of his neck. “Perhaps if I take part of your essence, I can find out.” Lowering his head, he bares his fangs and sinks into the flesh.


	33. Midnight Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically Expositionville, so not a lot of action going on. But it should clear up a few things in the meantime. :)

A light, dizzy feeling fills Mortimer's head as he regains consciousness. His surroundings are dim, but he recognizes the touch of cotton and rotting wood. Passing out and waking up in unfamiliar places. An odd trend he's been following lately. Stepping off the creaky old bed, he starts to explore the premises. In the current room, there is little in the way of decoration, save for dust and cob webs, but off to one side sits a single refrigerating unit. It cannot be more than ten years old, yet the rust and dirt on it makes it look far older. Mort struggles with the handle until it finally opens. Inside are containers of raw meats, blood packs, and frozen mice. He slams it shut immediately and leaves the room.

The rest of the house is hardly much better. Cold, barren, and filthy. Then he finds a kitchen—complete with working oven and fridge. The appliances are better maintained (or appear so), and there is actual food stored in the fridge and cupboards. Canned tuna, canned vegetables, jars of what looks like chocolate (he can't tell for sure, as the words are in another language), and boxes of pasta noodles (this bloke sure likes his pasta). An array of pots, pans, and kitchen tools are assorted neatly on the countertop and in the pantries. They look like new, with one exception: a bloodstained cleaver, marked by a series of odd-looking lines.  _This looks familiar..._

“You're finally awake.” Panicking, Mort grabs a random knife and points it at the stranger behind him. Clad in red with two-colored eyes staring blankly at him, Valdo steps into the kitchen. “You were out for a whole day. I guess you lost more blood than we thought. Don't worry, though—I patched you up real good.” Mort, suddenly feeling an itching sensation in his neck, moves his hand over to scratch it. “I would suggest you not do that. The wound heals faster that way.”

“W-what did you do?”

“I had questions I wanted answers to. So I took some of your essence to access your memories.”

“So you bit me?”

“Just a nibble.” He flashes a grin, his canines longer than normal. “The soul is closely connected to the mind and body; whatever happens to any one of them, the soul feels. The soul is what makes us who and what we are. And you, Mortimer Mundy, are far from what you appear to be.”

“If you think I'm some kind of crazy vampire monster or somethin', you've got another thing comin'!”

“I wasn't going to say that. What I will say, though, is this: you have great power hidden within you. Now, whether it's been around since you were born, or if it's something triggered by your recruitment, I can't say for sure. Really, I can't confirm anything about you. It's like something's preventing me from it. But whatever it is, it must be especially scandalous.”

“Scandalous, schmandalous. Quit yer psychobabble an' let me out!”

“I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm giving you a warning. Dante Alterheim is watching you closely. He's been scheming a whole lot, and experimenting. That thing he sent to sic Alan in Badlands? That was his doing. And he's got plenty more stalking about the bases. Igor, me, we both have one thing in common: Lifeblood.”

_Lifeblood. That word again._  “What is 'Lifeblood', anyway? Dante mentioned it was the key to immortality, but then he talked about my dad and—”

“Lifeblood is a man-made substance comprised of many things. I can't name all of the ingredients, but among them are opium and blood.”

Mort starts shaking. “B-blood?”

“Yeah, blood. But not just anyone's blood. Blood of a vampire.”

“You're not trying to tell me vampires exist, are you?”

“Actually, I am. Those marks on your neck are sure proof of that. But I'm not the source of the Lifeblood—merely one of the few blessed with its magic. There's a monster in Teufort, Mortimer. Pray he doesn't come after you next.” He gives a crooked smile, and he's gone in a blink.

With Valdo out of the way, Mort wanders about until he finds the front door. “He really could have shown me out, at least,” he mutters to himself.  _Could've saved a lot of time._  More attentive of his surroundings, he treks his way back to the barracks. As the building appears within the horizon, the sun begins to set, the golden rays giving way to orange, red, then the purple-blue of the evening sky. This sunset resonates with a warm nostalgia. Memories of his time with Alan, from their first meeting to their arrival in Teufort, flash through his mind like scenes from a motion picture. He's timid and sophisticated and graceful, like a daisy. No, maybe not a daisy. Like a faerie. Alan may be human, but he has this otherworldly characteristic about him. It's easy to understand why he would be targeted by scum like Dante.  _But what's so special about me?_

Mort has not been able to form an answer, as he arrives at the entrance. Twilight has arrived as well, the sky blanketed with glittering stars. After taking a shower, he rushes to the doctor's office to treat his wounds. Has it really been two days? Two days of doing nothing but sleeping and walking and... He slips out the bag from his pocket and inspects its contents. Tiny and seed-like, yet vibrant in color and symmetrically shaped, like a pill. The thug on the street claimed the substance was all-natural, but Valdo said Lifeblood was man-made. So which is it?

“What's that you got there?” Before Mort can react, a hand snatches the bag away from him. The tall doctor, his hair styled in his trademark pompadour, digs around, squinting at the seed-pills inside. “Wait a minute. This is that new drug everyone's been pushin'!” With great force from a single hand, he pins Mort to the wall. “How'd you get a hold of this?”

Mort stammers, “I found it on the ground—honest!”

A scoff. “Yeah, sure. And I'm the Prime Minister. Just gimme the truth, Mort, an' I won't have to hurt you for it.”

He looks away, thinking hard about what to say. Then the words come out in a mumble, “I got in a fight.” Raising his voice, he details the story about his run-in with the thugs and his subsequent encounter with Valdo. “He tells me there's vampires an' monsters running around Teufort, and that I'm in the middle of all this somehow. It's all really crazy, and I don't know what the hell to do.”

Calming down, he lets go. “I figured this day would come.” He slips the drug into his coat pocket and continues. “Y'see, I've been tailin' Dante, workin' as a double agent for him. With me an' Shiro split like we are, it makes the whole operation that much easier. Anywho, I've been pretending to be his little errand boy, and dug up some good dirt.” He stops briefly to lock the door. “For one thing, Lifeblood's being distributed as a legal drug known as Mortaxin. It's been known to treat both physical and psychological symptoms, so it's really high in demand. But prolonged exposure to it turns patients into blood-sucking freaks like Valdo.”

A lightbulb goes off in Mort's head. “So Danny Boy plans to turn everyone into vampires!”

“Right. But here's where it gets tricky. Luca's not into the whole 'immortality' shtick like Dan is, but he sees some serious potential in the experiment. Rather, his ultimate goal as a mentor for SPAI is to create a 'Super Spy' of sorts. In order to do that, he has to erase the very identity of his own test subject.”

Taking in all this information, the Sniper lets out a gasp. “Al!”

“'Alan' doesn't exist. He's a mask created by Luca to infiltrate our bases. His real self is just an empty shell meant to take our information and use it against us. Cuz that's what Spies do: blackmail and backstab.”

“But Al—”

“Al's not real! Just face it already.”

Mort is frozen stiff by the revelation, the possibility that the person he's known for the past couple of months is nothing but a fabrication. But with each passing second, a boiling anger rises, tensing his shoulders and balling his hands into fists. “I'm gonna tell him. I'm gonna tell him everything.”

Hohojiro rushes to stop him from reaching the door. “Wait! If you tell him, then they'll—” A swift elbow to the stomach stops him flat.

“Fake or not, Alan Astor is my friend. The least he deserves is the truth.” Grasping the knob, he adds, “If Al's not real, then what the hell are you?” Hohojiro, shocked by the extra punch in the gut, cannot come up with a single answer.

Dark, cold, and damp. The sewers are home for rats and filth, certainly not for well-dressed men like himself. But these large pipeways are important, not just because of their filtration system (however questionable its quality). They provide a convenient pathway to the opposing fort, and to many other places in Teufort, if you know where to look. Halfway through the main path is a small corner of concrete land. On the walls are super-sized computers, with whirring gears and flashing buttons. Most of the mercenaries don't think much of these useless machines, but he knows the truth. Pressing a specific set of buttons causes one of the machines to move aside, opening a secret pathway. Walking down the dark corridor leads him to a tiny room with a desk, two chairs, and a bulletin board covered in notes, maps, and blueprints. On the desk is a phone and a golden name plate with “Luca Petrinni” etched in large letters.

It does not take long for Anonyme to arrive. But it's a minute past midnight, and tardiness will not be excused. “You're late.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I was—”

“No excuses. Now, sit.” They do. “Anonyme, what is your mission?”

“To gather information and relay it back to you.”

“And what progress have you made?”

“N-not much, sir. I've tried to retain my consciousness since the trip to Badlands, but it has been a touch unstable lately.”

“Oh, just a touch? Look at you. Your skill with machines are terrible, you cannot fake a fake accent, and you're becoming more and more conspicuous by zhe day.” He stops to stare them up and down. “Have you gained weight? You're looking a bit...  _fuller_.”

Anonyme winces, the terror clear on their face. While body image issues are nothing unusual, to a Spy, even the slightest imperfection is a death sentence. In order to hide in various nooks and crannies and avoid trouble more easily, one must be slender like a rod. Alan was born with long limbs and an androgynous frame. However, his wide pelvis and unusual genetic makeup made it easier to store body fat, especially in the hips, thighs, and rear, which got him stuck in many a tight spot. While Alan was never anywhere near obese, when standing next to his stick-thin peers, he always did look a bit chubbier. “I-I'm sorry. I will try to control Alan better.”

“Don't  _try_.  _Do_.” The look that Luca gives is cold and sharp, like the stalactite in his gloved hand. “Status report on Operation Watchdog.”

It takes a moment for them to process.  _Is that what he's calling it now?_  “Oh. Mortimer has been in emotional strain, but he is slowly recovering. But he has been absent the past couple of days; I was unable to track him.”

Luca opens his mouth, ready to strike, when the phone rings. “Hello? Hmm. Yes, I see. Very well, then.” He hangs up and turns to them again. “Good news, Anonyme. Mortimer has finally made his return. And it seems he's looking for you.”

Anonyme's voice shrinks. “M-me?”

“Yes, you, O Nameless One. It appears our little charade is falling apart. Do what you must to keep him from the truth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and do me one more favor? Get rid of Hohojirozame. I have the feeling we won't be needing him much longer.”

They hesitate before answering, “Yes, sir.”


	34. Bats in the Belfry

Stepping out of the sewers and into the barracks, Anonyme is feeling true dread for the first time in ages.  _If Mort is looking to see me, then he must have figured it out somehow. But who could have tipped him off? Probably Hohojirozame; there's no other explanation._  Swallowing their nerves, they head upstairs to their room.  _It doesn't matter, anyway. Mortimer Mundy wants to talk to me. Not Alan—me!_  Subconsciously, a smile creeps up on their face, almost straining from joy.

But it isn't Mortimer that greets her in the bedroom. Rather, it is a pallid figure, her long hair floating like waves in an ocean. “Evening, Anonyme,” she says, her odd accent flourishing with her unburdened emotions. “Morty was looking all over for you! He left just a moment ago, so he can't have gone far.” She looks out the window. “He's out on the lot, if you still wish to catch him.” Right away, Anonyme rushes out the door. “That always seems to happen.”

They run out onto the lot just as Mort is about to step into his truck. As much as they want to call out his name, they are forced to restrain their emotions and keep an air of authority. “You wanted to see me, Mortimer?”

Mort turns around, face-to-face with the one called 'Anonyme'. “You're Ninny, right? I heard all about it. You don't have to hide yerself anymore.”

With hesitance, they reply, “I am known as The Nameless One. I am what Alan once was, memories and all. Though I am doubting my purpose now, as this shell of a person is beginning to overtake me.”

“You mean Al, right?”

“Yes,” they answer, more emotional than usual. “How dare he have the audacity to claim this body as his, when he doesn't even know the truth. If he succeeds...” Anonyme wipes away the tears welling up in their eyes. “I'll die.”

“Die?” Mort's at a loss for words. He scratches the back of his neck, trying to think of an answer. “Well, I can't say I know you as well as Al. But you're just as important as he is. You're like two peas in a pod!”

“Mort, we're not friends. We're just two people in one body. We can't possibly work like this!”

“But you can. When it comes down to it, you can't really live without him, and it's the same vice-versa. If one's missing, the other's incomplete. Like a puzzle missing some pieces. Al or Ninny or whatever you call that body of yours, you're still a person. All it takes is connecting the pieces together.”

“Connecting the pieces...” Their head starts throbbing, their teeth grinding in agony. “I'll... think about it...” They give a tiny smile before retreating deep into their subconscious. Mort runs over to catch their body before it hits the ground.

Blinking through blurred vision, Alan awakens. “W-what happened? I thought I was sleeping. And I had this weird dream... Luca was in it, and you—” He looks around, realizing he's lying out in the parking lot with his roommate's arm wrapped around him. “Mort? What happened? Why am I here?”

“Uh, you were sleepwalking. Yeah, that's it—sleepwalking!” Mort forces a smile. Al isn't buying it. “Well, um, not like it matters. What matters is yer alright.” He pulls him close into a hug. Alan tries to retaliate with some sort of remark, but cannot come up with the words. Instead, he lays his head against his shoulder and returns the gesture.

Sadly, the peace does not last for long, as an ear-piercing screech cuts it off. Swooshing past them is a golden blur, which crashes to the floor and fumbles about helplessly. Mort warily approaches it, seeing more details, like large, pointed ears, sharp fangs, and bat-like wings. He picks up the small, yellow creature and pets its honey-colored fur. “Hey, Al, look at this! It's a li'l batty!”

“A bat?” Alan trembles a bit at the thought as he walks up to Mort. “He won't bite, will he?” He reaches out a finger, but recoils as the bat hisses at him.

“Hmm. I guess he ain't fond of you fer now,” says Mort as it nibbles at his fingers. “Maybe he's just hungry. I'll see what I can find.”

“Hold on a minute. You mean to  _keep_  that thing?”

“Not  _keep_  it. Just gonna tend to him 'til his wing gets better. So how 'bout it, Batty? Yer gonna stay with us fer a while!”

“No way! I'm not staying with that filthy thing!”

“Hmm... Yer right. He pro'lly wouldn't be allowed inside, anyway. He can stay here with me fer the night.” He starts heading for the van. “I'll talk with you more in the morning. 'Night!”

Al stares in disbelief as Mort slams the car door shut, then, weary, heads back into the base. As he just said, there's nothing else to really talk about... or is there?

Farther out, in the residential area that divides Teufort from the surrounding desert wasteland, Luca makes way for Valdo's house. He never likes to do menial tasks for Dante, but no matter how much blackmail material he collects, nothing seems to phase the doctor. Now, with Dante out of town, he's stuck with babysitting Val for the weekend. Great. He walks into the kitchen first, assuming that the Scout would be enjoying a nighttime meal. No one. He heads into the guest room, where he would find whatever remains of his victim. Nada. Every last room he enters, nothing. He walks into Valdo's bedroom, empty save for a rickety old bed and a worn, wooden dresser. The window across from the bed is shattered, a hand-sized hole letting cold air in. But there is no glass on the floor. Immediately, he runs out of the room in search for the nearest phone, then dials the first number that comes to mind. “Miller, you there? Meet me at the park tonight. We need to talk.”

The next morning, Mort wakes up, lightheaded and drowsy. “Mornin', li'l guy,” he slurs while petting the blond tuff of fur, which has grown overnight. Feeling cramped and claustrophobic, he pulls back the covers, only to find a second, paler set of legs next to his. He looks at the blond tuff again, and instead of a sleeping bat, he finds a sleeping human. “ _Baldo?_ ” Placing one hand on his neck, he's relieved to find it untouched. “Well, I guess I can leave you here fer now. Gonna get you some breakfast, alright?” As he walks out, he mentions to himself,  _The less the others know 'bout him, the better._

The Sniper barges into the cafeteria, then proceeds to take his usual fill of food, plus some fruit and raw meat by request. With a chuckle, Duncan asks, “Hoarding an animal in yer truck, or are ye going feral?”

“Yes,” says Mort as he carries away the food. When he returns to the van, Valdo is already awake, huddled up in the darkest corner. “Val? I brought you something. Just the way you like it.” He hands over the raw meat, which the RED Scout reluctantly chews on while Mort sits down next to him. “Doesn't it bother you, being all cramped in a teeny space like this?”

Valdo shrugs. “I'm used to it.”

“Y'know, when you first told me 'bout that whole 'vampire' thing, I wasn't sure what to believe. But seeing you as a bat really showed me. You look cute as a bat, by the way.”

He looks up, shocked by the Sniper's remark. “Thanks.”

“From the look on yer face, I take it you don't take compliments often, right?”

“None about my person. I receive plenty of praise for my art, though. A little too much.”

“But your art deserves it! The way you can look into someone's soul like that through paintings... it's amazing!”

“Yeah, I'm talented. I get it. So what?”

“Sure, there's lots of talented artists, but not many that can touch people's lives like that. Really, the fact that you can paint reflections of the human soul is nothing short of remarkable.” With a gentle smile, Mort continues. “There's no way an artist like that can be all bad.”

Valdo stops chewing, dropping his meat. “You're wrong. I'm a horrible person. I hurt things on purpose, I drink human blood, and I hate more people than I can count.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you,” he says, though his tone lacks serious intent. “No one wants to be friends with a madman. They look at me, they see nothing but a freak. A kid that never cried or smiled. A boy that would freeze up for no reason. Even my mother hated me, treated me like some broken doll no child would play with.”

“But you had Vincent, right?”

“I used to. But then... he committed an unforgivable act. And since then, I've hated him with every last fiber of my being. Now Dante cares for me, as he always had.”

His eyes widen. “You and Danny Boy go back a long time.” He is reminded of Vince's relationship with Hartmann, and wonders if Dante ever treats Valdo the same.

“He was my doctor back in the asylum. Gave me my prescription, even fed and bathed me. Then he swapped out my old meds with the Lifeblood, and since then, I've stayed with him. He's far from a perfect man—some might even call him the devil—but he's the dad I've never had.”

“That's some dad you got,” Mort says, deadpan. “Somebody give 'im a trophy.”

“If you were in the same spot, you'd be grateful to have anybody care about you.” He looks away. “I know I'm just being used, but if I can prove that I'm worth something to somebody, that's all I can ask for.”

Mort does not answer. Not right away. There's a lot of meaning behind what Valdo said, meaning that he himself can relate to. Unable to come up with the words, he expresses himself through embrace.

Valdo blinks, a puzzled look on his face. “Do you always do this?” The Sniper gives a brief shrug and continues what he's doing. “You're even worse than Jiro said you were.”

“'Jiro'?” It takes a second for him to connect two and two. “He was talkin' about me?”

“Of course. You are the only person in BLU that knows, after all. Well, other than Anonyme, but they don't count. He's a good friend of mine.” The edges of his mouth curl up subtly. “He even gave me a new toy to play with. Any more questions?”

“Yeah. How'd you turn into a bat, anyway? I mean, yer so big, an' then you turn tiny! How does that even work?”

“I don't know the exact science, but it's sort of like this.” Straightening his arm out, Valdo closes his eyes to concentrate, then winces as his bones crack and distort, his fingers elongating and growing thin flaps of skin in the spaces between as the rest of his arm bends into a new shape. “From there, it's a matter of becoming smaller, though it's harder to pull off. I've only learned how to do this recently, so I don't have full control of it yet.”

Mort blinks in astonishment. “That's amazing! Like, crazy awesome! What else can you do?”

“Well, I can regenerate and read memories by drinking their blood, but not much else.” He leans close to the BLU, their noses almost touching. “I'm more curious about you. How did you manage to fight off those thugs so well? No normal human is capable of such strength.”

Not wanting to dig into bad memories, he tries to keep things straight. “It's nothing to write home about. I just happen to have strong legs.”

“Unusually strong, and attractive. I'd like to see you use that strength more often.” His two-colored eyes stare at him, sultry and mesmerizing. The air feels tense and warm, as they wait for the other to reply. Then a loud knock causes Valdo to jump back. “Shit!” He transforms himself into his fun-sized bat form and roosts on the edge of the jar shelf.

The door opens, and Duncan comes sneaking in. “'Ey, Mort. Just coming in to check up on ye.” He spots the sleeping bat and chuckles. “So that's the new pet Al was talkin' about. Anywho, I came over to invite you.”

“Invite me? Where?”

“Camping, of course! We're being sent over to Thunder Mountain—big mission, they said. You can bring yer li'l friend, too, if ye like.”

Mort glances at Val, then shrugs. “Well, it doesn't seem like I got a choice. When're we leaving?”

Hours later, he and the rest of his team are packed in a bus heading straight to the mountains. Driving the van is Duncan, while he's stuck between Alan and Vincent in the backseat. Of course, Valdo is present, stashed away in a shoebox on Mort's lap. Alan is struggling to read his book without getting carsick, while Vince is going back and forth between watching Alan and pretending not to. Under his seat is their luggage, including a backpack filled with clothing, rations, and supplies. The bag is a gift from Joey, who wanted him to be a “cozy camper”, whatever he meant by that. Well, it's certainly convenient.

Duncan has stuck to the main road for the first half of the trip, then drives off-tangent, heading into terrain which only grows rougher as it transitions from desert to forest. Trees and shrubs zoom in and out of sight as the van drives up the dirt road leading up to the mountains. By early evening, the forest spans out, surrounding the series of buildings and structures up ahead. Duncan parks outside the barracks and opens the door; flooding out are eight relieved (and possibly carsick) mercenaries. After Mort and Al step out, he follows after, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. “Welcome to Thunder Mountain, lads! Lemme show you around.”

“I'll handle it from here,” says a feminine voice from behind. Everybody turns around, and Alan and Mort smile at the sight of the familiar woman. “How are you two doing,” she asks while approaching them.

“Ellen? What're you doing here? You should be in Badlands with the others.”

Ellen chuckles. “Same reason you are. This mission's far too big for one team, as it turns out. So they brought my team all the way up here to help you guys out.” Her eyes skim the crowd. “Lemme help you out with those. Boys!” At her call, two large men—a Heavy and a Soldier, judging by the outfits—appear to bring in the BLU team's luggage. “With that out of the way, allow me to show you around.”

She gives them a quick tour of the building, which is surprisingly different from the other barracks Mort's been to; according to her, the barracks were once a summer camp center before being bought out by BLU and RED. Showing the sleeping area, with two even rows of bunk beds and almost nothing else, Al and Aiden wince at the openness. “If you need privacy, I suggest changing in the restrooms,” Ellen reassures them. “As for the rest of you, if you have any questions, I'll be in the infirmary in the next cabin over.” She walks off just as her men enter to drop off their baggage.

 

Stepping out of the barracks, Mort takes the lid off the shoebox and looks down at the small, yellow bundle of fur inside. “Sorry, mate. Looks like you'll have t' stay outside.” The bat stares back, then flies out of the box and up onto the roof of the barracks. The Sniper cannot help but smile, feeling as if he's made a new friend today.


	35. Flame in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time around, we're introducing some new characters, including one I've been meaning to bring into the story for quite some time. Writing's been slow going, so I hope you'll enjoy all the little things SnS has to offer!

Inside the infirmary cabin, Ellen slaves away at today's paperwork. While her daytime jobs as doctor and spy keep her on her feet, her true occupation—the one she puts her mind into—consists primarily of observation, communication, and lots of note-taking. Spread all over her desk are folders containing medical data relevant to each individual patient: prescriptions, health problems that may or may not be affected by said prescriptions, symptoms and emotional strifes, et cetera, et cetera. This would make dull reading to the average person, but to her, it's nothing short of paradise. After a long day of talking to and working alongside people, it is a relief to just sit back and observe the results from afar.

Her ears pick up the whining pitch of the door opening, but doesn't turn around. “Good evening, Vince. You're right on time, as usual. Shall we begin?”

“Um, yes.” He takes a seat in a nearby chair. “Well, there's something I'd like to talk about. It's about Alan.”

“Glad you brought it up. I was wondering how you two have been since our last visit.”

“We're doing a lot better. Ooshiro, too.”

“Ooshiro? I thought you disliked him.”

“Well, I did at first. But then we talked things out, and I guess we sort of accept each other, I dunno.”

“I see... And how about Mortimer?”

He hesitates. “He's fine, I guess. We don't talk a whole lot anymore. He tends to wander off without me knowing. Al, too. To be honest, I'm sort of jealous. When they're together, they seem to have this thing, like they were meant to be together.” His gaze turns downward. “I feel like there's no room for me with them.”

“I know that exact feeling,” Ellen says as she puts a hand on his shoulder. “When I was your age, there was a man I knew. We were friends at first, but soon, I fell in love. Then he met my sister, Annabelle. The two of them clicked instantly, and married soon after. The entire time, I felt like I couldn't get between them, like I could never belong. But they proved me wrong. They proved that there was still room in their hearts for me.” Wiping a tear from her eye, she continues. “Anyway. Whether you and Alan end up together or not, the two of you are already close friends, and I doubt anything will change that.”

“You 'doubt' it. You're not even certain?”

“Vince, no one can be certain about what will happen. All you can really do is do what feels right for you. Even if it means letting go of a few things. As for Alan, knowing him as well as I do, he's not the type to easily abandon a friend. Neither will Mort.”

Lips turned upward, Vince replies, “Thank you. And, um, one more thing. Do you know anybody named 'Anonyme'? It came up in a dream recently, and I just feel like I know that name from somewhere. I know it sounds silly, but—”

“Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question. Not very good with names. How about you ask Alan instead? That's more in his line of work. And besides, it will give you an excuse to talk to him.”

The Scout, stammering, agrees to her suggestion and walks out. As the door shuts behind her, Ellen returns to her work, organizing the medical files for “Scott, V.” She quickly jots down some additional notes on one sheet before moving on to the next folder, labeled “Mundy, M.” The folder is unusually shallow, despite being given so much info from her Spy friends; for much of the patient's history, he fell off the radar, and all records of his birth were non-existent, if not destroyed. The man clearly had a childhood, as she can tell from the family photos she obtained, but as far as the legal public is concerned, he might as well never existed. All attempts at finding an answer only brings up more questions, and with those questions come increasingly undesirable theories. Mulling over the possibilities, she looks through the photos, then reaches for the phone and dials a private number. “Hello, this is Dr. Etranger speaking. Is Dr. Hartmann on the line?”

Back at the barracks, Alan climbs the ladder up to the top bunk, while Mort takes the bottom. Leaning over to look at the beds across from them, the Sniper asks, “Oi, Rami! What's the mission like, anyway?”

Rami, a large, brown-skinned man of middle age, answers with a shrug. “Dr. Etranger never told us much. Only that it's big enough to require two teams. Whatever RED's got, it's definitely worth getting.”

His partner, a long-haired young male with glasses, adds, “Isn't there a rumor about there being Australium hidden in the US? Perhaps that's what they are protecting.”

“Idiot, Australium isn't real! That's just a flock of lies.”

The bespectacled man turns to Mort and asks, “You're Australian, right? Can you prove to this dimwit that Australium exists?”

The Aussie, forlorn, says, “Honestly, I don't know. I've never been to Sydney 'fore heading here, so I can't say for sure.”

“So if you've never been to Sydney, then where were you from?”

“Middle of nowhere, more or less. The nearest town's not on any map I've seen.”

Rami shudders. “Middle of nowhere, so far from civilization. How can any family survive like that?”

“It shouldn't be that hard if he's here.”

“Says you, Mara,” he mutters, embittered. “You not once left the house before we joined BLU.”

Mort speaks up to quell the conflict. “Guys, it's not really that bad. We just lived really far away from town. Though I guess we were closer to the bush than most people. I had a friend that lived in a sheep station. Took a couple of hours on foot, but it was totally worth it. But then he left fer the big city...” He shakes his head. “But enough about me. Let's get some sleep. 'Night!” He flops onto his pillow, pretending to fall asleep until the others have given up on furthering the subject. The conversation still fresh in his mind, he ruminates on his own past, as he often does.

He remembers his mother, her chestnut curls bouncing and swaying with the breeze, and her voice as soothing as a bird's song. Her eyes, large and bright, are ingrained in his memory, as many have commented on his resemblance to hers. His father, on the other hand, looks very little like him: blonde, lanky, with steely blue eyes that cut like a knife; the only thing they share in common is the golden-brown tan they've gained from working under the sun for so long. Everybody who has interacted with them hardly see the connection at all. Almost like his father never belonged.

Perhaps that disconnect is the reason why they fought so often. Father was always cold and harsh, and knew only how to discipline children, not how to raise them. Most parents would have been proud to hear their son's desire to be a doctor, but not Father. He never believed in his own child—not if his grades and reading ability had anything to say about it—and repeatedly pushed him towards his own path of tending to flowers. But those times with his dad were not without benefit: because of his knowledge, Mort learned about the functions and biology of various flora, which proved to be useful in his journey. That knowledge still remains with him to this day, and it seems he will have to utilize it in the future.

Dawn breaks through the windows, signaling the start of a new day. While more than half of the cabin-mates have already sped right to the cafeteria, Mort and Mara are left in the dust. Mara, with his stooped-over posture, stands a couple of inches shorter than Mort, who raises a brow. “Y'know, when I first saw you yesterday, you looked really big. But now that I see you, yer no taller than me.”

“I always look tall when I'm standing next to Ellen,” Mara replies. “Compared to guys like Pasha, I'm a shrimp.”

“Everyone looks like a shrimp next to Pasha. Yer not that small.” He smirks, examining the younger man. One can't deny he's  _wide_. “If you stand up straight, you might get some respect.”

“I don't want your 'respect',” he mutters. “Just leave me alone.” He turns and shuffles a bit faster, avoiding further conversation.

“Don't worry about Mara,” Rami says, reassuring Mort after he explained the situation. “He's not one for social mores. His parents abandoned him as a kid, and since then, he never really trusted anybody. Nobody except me and Ellen. I guess you can say we're his new parents.”

“But why would they do that? Just ditch him like that?”

“I cannot answer that question. Some parents do it with good intentions, others not so much. It's not the best course of action by far, but they have their reasons, so I'm forced to accept it.” With a sad smile, he says, “In a way, I think it's worked well in our favor. Especially since Ellen lost her child...”

Mort gulps. “Lost child?”

“I don't know the full details, but she mentioned losing a child many years ago. If they're still alive today, they would probably be as old as that kid Soldier of yours. Though if they were alive today, Ellen probably wouldn't be here.”

Noticing Rami's downward gaze, he asks, “You've been with Elly a long time, right?” Nod. “And I bet you want Mara to be happy, too, right?” Another nod. “Then what're you waitin' for? If you like 'er, then you should put a ring on it!”

Startled, he shifts his gaze into a sharp glare. “It's not that easy, kid. She doesn't see me in that way, never has. Besides, she's already married.”

“What? To who?”

“To her job. Now, come on. Quit gossiping and get to work!” He grabs Mort by the collar and drags him out onto the field.

Ellen was right when she said this mission is big. So big, in fact, she has to split it in two parts so she can distribute the numbers evenly. On top of a standard territory watch—lovingly dubbed “King of the Hill” by the crew—they have to infiltrate RED's warehouses by blowing a hole in it. After going over the details of the plan, she moves on to dividing the team. “'King of the Hill' missions are relatively straightforward, so we can let the rookies take over. The rest of us can work on pushing the cart.” To drive home the point, she draws a line in the middle of the chalkboard and proceeds to write names on each side. Under the half labeled “KOTH”, she adds Mort, Alan, Mara, Ooshiro, Rami, and Vince, among others. She herself and everyone else are listed under “PAYLOAD”. “If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold the truth.”

The other mercs shrug and keep quiet, but Vincent, face contorted in rage, objects loudly. “Hold on a minute! I've been working at BLU for far longer than half of the Payload team, especially him—” He points at the other Scout, a lanky boy with thick-rimmed glasses, “—and you leave me with a bunch of newbies? I deserve to work the Payload mission, and you know it.”

Everyone lets out a loud gasp, and soft murmurs fill the room as all eyes are on the Scout. Ellen, on the other hand, is completely unfazed. “Vincent, I love you and trust you like my own son. But you have much to learn, especially with that attitude of yours.” She approaches him, then grabs hold of his face betwixt two fingers and pulls him close, her stare cold as ice. “This entire half of the mission is riding upon your shoulders, so I suggest you man up and do as you're told.” With a smile, she chirps, “Comprende?” He nods and is freed. “Glad that's settled. Now then, let's get this show on the road!”

The teams split up, with Ellen's group running down the mountain road, and Vince's team towards the sawmill. The sawmill area is compressed by the surrounding forest and buildings, with the control point located between two giant buzz saws in a barn house-like structure. As the name implies, the mill is one of Mann Co's many sources of building material for a good number of their products, including weapons. “However, rumor has it underneath that control point, there lies a secret so sinister, even the boss doesn't want to remember it,” Mara adds, a creepy tone underlying his flat voice. “But whatever it takes, I will uncover it, as that is my new purpose.”

Leaning towards Rami, Alan points at the young man and whispers, “Is he for real? Nobody talks like that... do they?”

“Mara has his quirks,” Rami explains, as if he's said it many times before, “but you'll get used to them. He does not like to work, but he does not like being useless, either. Just play along for now; you might have something in common. Look.” He points his chin at Mort, visibly motivated by Mara's tale.

“Is all that true? Is there really something hidden under this base?”

“It's a rumor, you dope. How would I know?”

Pouting, he fiddles with his fingers. “Well, you got any idea what it could be?”

“The rumors tend to vary, but the most common one is that it's a facility meant to create an army of super soldiers. As for how,” he shrugs, “Anything is possible.”

From the Resupply room, the team arms themselves and wait for the announcer's signal. Once the gates open, they rush out and spread in all different directions. Ooshiro runs behind to support Mara as he mows down an approaching crowd of REDs with his modified submachine gun. Meanwhile, farther away from the sawmill, Mort climbs up to the highest point possible and readies his rifle. Through the narrow range of the sniper scope, he can see even the slightest action if he focuses long enough. On one end of the field, he spots Alan stabbing an unsuspecting Medic in the back. On the other, Vince, pistol in hand, is running towards the mill. Every which way he looks, somebody is contributing to the cause. Standing on a roost, staring down at them, he begins to wonder if there is more he can do.

A red blur zips by. He pulls the trigger. Miss. More red figures run around, and he cannot keep focused on any one target. Miss, miss, miss. He curses to himself with every bullet wasted, until he runs out of ammo. Running around like a decapitated chicken, he searches for a stray ammo box, barely avoiding a bullet or two in the process. He eventually finds a small box in a secluded corner of the building, along with a medicine bottle. The tension in his shoulders dissipate as he applies the medicine to his wound, and having a gun filled with ammo revitalizes his competitive drive.

Sniping from the old spot wouldn't do him any good; the enemy already caught wind of his presence there. Looking around, there are several hiding spots to shoot from, however far from ideal they may be. Ducking behind a shack corner, he almost gets his hat blown off by the ensuing bullet storm. He raises his rifle to aim at the Heavy—and freezes up.

Approaching the mill is not a large, boorish man like he expected, but rather, a young, petite girl, wielding a brass weapon as long as she is tall. Her short, red hair flows like a flame in the night, and her ruby-colored eyes burn with a reserved passion. She stands proud and tall, despite the weight of the gun in her hands, bringing to mind another person Mort knows. Following behind her is a Pyro, his half-bald scalp exposed and wearing a mouth-covering gas mask, and a dark-skinned Scout wearing a garish-looking outfit akin to what matadors traditionally wear.

While not as young as the girl leading them, they cannot be much older than Vince or J.D. Compared to him, they're practically children. His trigger finger trembles. No. The moment they were recruited, they stopped being children. Still, the guilt will undoubtedly hit him hard. He points the rifle at the girl's head.  _I'm sorry_ , he whispers to himself as he pulls the trigger.


	36. The Blood of Our Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so late. I completely lost track of time and almost missed out. Anywho, here's a brand-new chapter to bring more insight into this whole shindig. I hope you enjoy this, cuz this may be the last one for a while.

No sound, no light, nothing. All around her, darkness. Her body feels neither warm nor cold; it's a strange, numbing sensation. Without any sense of time, it goes on for what seems like forever. Then suddenly, a light. Everything fades to white, then she opens her eyes.

She's back in the Resupply room, a barren space decorated with a locker, a scale, and a uniform rack. Oh, and that pin-up calendar, tacky as it is. The circled cross painted on the supply locker is colored bright red, ensuring her that she has landed in the right spot. Her instincts tell her to rush towards the locker, but her weapons have already been properly loaded, so there's no sense to it. Lugging her Brass Beast—a gorgeous giant of a weapon, if she ever saw one—with no effort, she storms into battle.

“Hola, Roja,” says the red toreador with a smile. “You don't look so good. Bitter about that blow to the head?”

“No. Well, maybe. I never expected to be so...  _incompetent_  on my first mission.”

He laughs. “Relax, Ana! Everyone sucks on their first day. When you don't know anybody or anything, it's easy to get in trouble on the field. Just give it some time—you'll be muy bueno, I'm sure of it!” He gives a quick wave goodbye and runs off, leaving her in the dust.

Ana blasts her foes in cold blood as she runs ahead towards the sawmill. Between her and the Control Point is the rotating saw blade, large enough to slice her in half. A lump builds up in her throat, but she moves onward. As soon as the blade retreats, she runs on, shooting down the blue turret hiding behind it. In little time, she makes it. Standing on the Point, all she has to do is wait for the light to turn red; protecting her territory is an easy task with the saws doing half of the work. She glances down at the light. Just a few more seconds...

_BAM!_

Instinctively, she jerks her head back, a bullet barely missing her nose as it zooms by. Her eyes shift to the direction the bullet came from. A Scout in blue zigzags towards her, managing to evade the blade in the process. His scattergun—a common, two-barreled shotgun of little note—is aimed squarely at her face. However, her expression remains stoic. “I've heard much about you, Vincent,” she greets. “You're the Scout that can't jump, aren't you?”

He cocks his pitiful excuse of a shotgun. “Trash talk won't keep me from claiming that Point.”

“A pathetic Scout like you won't stop me from protecting it.”

“Who are you, anyway? I would recognize a change in enemy ranks. Especially one as notable as you.”

She smirks warmly, in contrast to her cold stare. “You have a good eye, I'll give you that. But then again, you would notice, knowing your godfather's gone turncoat.”

His hands tremble as they grip the gun tighter. “He is  _not_  a traitor! He was forced onto your side.”

“Oh, was he? He could have declined the offer if he wanted to. Of course, that would require dropping out of the game for a while, as a penalty. Possibly forever.”

“He would never quit his job!” He thrusts his gun towards her. “And you can't decline an Auto-Balance order, anyway.”

“And why not? Rules are being broken all the time, and from what I've heard, your godfather is quite the rebel. So if he was more willing to obey orders than quit entirely, whatever could that mean, hmm?” Her smile grows, stretching to uncanny proportions. “I can see it in your heart—even you feel Mallory's betrayed you.”

“ENOUGH!” Vince charges towards her, intending to knock her out with the butt of the gun. Instead, he ends up on the ground, his head inches away from the buzz saw. Staring down is the young girl, her brass weapon held against his chest. He hardly has a second to utter a single word as his torso fills with lead.

He wakes up in BLU's Resupply locker, cursing under his breath as he rushes back onto the field. With a pistol on hand, he blasts every foe that happens to be in his way, then aims the short barrel at the girl, who has moved away from the point to guard the perimeter. But an odd detail—an arrow stuck to her shoulder—causes him to lower his gun. Judging by the faded red aura it's emitting, it appears to be healing her, in a manner similar to the Dispensers that Engineers build. Another arrow is shot, this one landing on her head. It might look silly, having an arrow on their head, but being able to shrug off so many blows—even blows that heal—is a remarkable display of the mercenaries' endurance.  _Those arrows...!_  Only one weapon is capable of such properties: the Crusader's Crossbow.  _Only one man I know uses that weapon..._

He runs straight into the RED team's line of fire, wielding a pistol half-filled with ammo, and points it at the one standing on the point. A large, bespectacled man in a lab coat, armed with a crossbow much too small and delicate for one of his stature.  _Hartmann!_  Without hesitation, Vince fires shots at the Medic, aiming to capture his attention. It works—perhaps a little too well. Contrary to appearances, Hartmann is amazingly agile, and combined with his strength and aggression, he is one doctor no one wants to mess with.

Hartmann switches out his crossbow for a bloodied saw and swings it wildly at Vince. Though related in spirit, both of them know that on the field, they are enemies out for each other's blood, and so fight like it. The Medic, for all his advantages, makes wide movements that are easy for a smaller, swifter opponent to avoid. But the Scout, fast as he may be, makes hits that can barely penetrate a tougher foe's defenses. On top of that, they have often dueled like this in their former days of training together, so they know each other well enough to nullify the other's moves.

Their fight continues, avoiding the destruction all around them as they run, dodge, and sidestep about the area. A few mercs, like Mara, have stopped fighting altogether, preferring to watch from the sidelines. Others, like Ana, have taken extreme measures to end the fight early, contributing to the surrounding hazards. But only one has been stupid enough to run into the crossfire.

Out of nowhere, a figure—seeming to float in mid-air—collides with the big doctor, knocking him out with one brown boot. Once he's confirmed dead, the figure approaches Vincent and gives him a swift blow to the face. “There's a time an' place fer everything, even for fightin' yer ol' pappy, but that time ain't now!”

Vince looks up, perplexed. “M-Mort?”

The figure—Mort—grins like the idiot he usually is. “The one and only. And it's about time you got back to work.” He pats Vince on the head. “I know you don't trust me much, but we're on the same team. Don't forget that, mate.”

Vince, reluctant to act on Mort's orders, nods anyway. In his feud with Hartmann, he had forgotten his main mission. But now he's determined as hell to finish it. As if on cue, the girl tosses her gun aside and cracks her knuckles. As soon as they are within arm's length of each other, the dance of fists begins. Unlike with Hartmann, the two of them are on equal footing in terms of speed and agility. However, the redhead—capable of carrying heavy artillery—hits much harder than the Scout ever will, putting him in a similar situation nonetheless.

A distant voice announces the one-minute mark, and the battle picks up in pace. Back and forth, the light on the point shifts from red to blue as they step all over it. When one of the giant saw blades rise up, Vince's mind races, and finds an opportunity. As soon as she raises her leg to deliver a roundhouse kick, he ducks, leaving her open. Then, with a swift leg motion, he throws her off-balance, sending her to a quick and painful demise.

With BLU taking the victory, the RED team is forced to flee to their base, lest their enemies send them back there through less pleasant means. In most cases, failure means very little—for them, at least—but after losing both their resources and part of their base, suddenly the big picture is laid out for them. Having worked there for years, Hartmann often wonders if there is even a point to all this. He scans the lunchroom for an isolated spot and sits there, picking apart his lunch.

“Excuse me, Mister Hartmann,” a meek voice asks. “Mind if I sit here?”

Hartmann hesitates, but shrugs and complies. He doesn't even need to peek to know who they are. “Lovely weather zhis evening. Vouldn't you agree, Ana?”

She bites down on a bread bun. “He's okay, I guess. Vincent, I mean.”

He bursts out laughing. “Got a little crush now, don't you?”

“Eh, not really. Too uptight. And too quick to anger.”

“Just like you.” She glares at him, and he clears his throat. “But seriously, a nice Frau like you, you deserve zhe best. Let's see... Zhere's Valdo...”

“Too creepy.”

“José...”

“Too showy.”

“Mara...”

“Too fat.”

He scratches his head. “Er, vell, zhere's still zhat Soldier kid.”

Ana stops to glance at Zhen, embarrassing his neighbor with his loud boasts and extravagant gestures. “He seems bold enough.”

“So you  _do_  have a type!”

“I do not! I just happen to admire certain traits. What's the point of this conversation, anyway?”

“Aw, nothing, really. Just an old man being nosy.” He sips on the water near him. “I've been trying to find Vincent a good voman for years now. But I guess he wouldn't like zhat.”

“You really care about him, don't you? Even though you're not even related...” She stares sadly at the food on her plate.

“If zhis is about your father, you can forget about him. Pasha's a jackass, anyvay.” He wraps an arm around her tiny body. “Vell, I've got old-man business to attend to. How 'bout you spend some time vith that Janey kid or vhatever?”

She lets out an uncharacteristic giggle and hugs him back. “Okay. Da svidanya, Papa!”

He waves at her while they part ways. Outside, the sky is a dark canvas dotted with stars and a moon shining over the forest. The earthy musk of dirt and pine passes through his nose as he takes a deep breath. The past few weeks have taken a heavy toll on Hartmann, but his short time here has lifted much of the burden. With Dante working overseas and Luca out of sight, he can finally relax and be himself. As he's learned from his time at RED, the other workers are pretty good folks when they aren't being manipulated. Regardless, he thinks often about his friends on the other side—Vincent, Duncan, heck, even Pasha. Perhaps he can ask Ellen when she arrives.

“Good evening, Doctor.” Speak of the devil. For a woman in her fifties, she looks nothing short of ravishing. Her wrinkles, few as they were, give her an air of wisdom, adding to her beauty. And her raven black hair, with loose strands floating like stocks of wheat, is let down, an unusual change in her style. And her rectangle glasses, well, they're a bit of a weakness for him; especially during the rare moments when she takes them off. The fact that she's one of the few that refers to him as “Doctor” without any hint of irony...

But he's letting himself get distracted. “Evening, Doctor. Vhat brings you here?” He's sweating beneath his collar. All alone, with just the two of them, anything could happen.

“It's about Mortimer.” Oh. Well, he's not sweating as much anymore. “Something's not adding up.”

“Not adding up? Vhat could be missing?” Besides a brain, maybe.

“Well, everything. No birth certificates, no social security, not even medical records. It's like he doesn't even exist!”

“So zhe boy's been living in zhe rough. Vhat about it?”

“Well, there's his father...” She slips out a photo and hands it to Hartmann. A clean-shaven man with platinum blonde hair and steel blue eyes shoot daggers into his soul. Looking closely, the man appears to be holding a black-and-white sign with his name: ALTERHEIM, F. “Faustus Alterheim was a doctor who was convicted of distributing illegal drugs to his patients, including opium. He was bailed out of jail by a relative, then disappeared without a trace. Until now, that is.” She hands him another photo, one of a family of three: a cleaned-up Faustus, a brunette woman, and a young child that looks unmistakably like Mort.

_Alterheim..._  The name brings a lot of memories, very few of them good. “You're not telling me zhat Mort... and Dante... are related?”

“There's nothing to connect them besides this, but it's possible.”  _RIP!_  She turns to the sight of Hartmann tearing up the mugshot. “What are you thinking? That's—”

“A secret no one needs to know. As far as ve are avare, Mr. Mundy is just a simple farmer, vith no connection to zhe Alterheim name.” He confirms this statement with a smile.

Ellen opens her mouth to protest, but nods instead, resigned to his optimism. “Yes. Just a simple farmer. Nothing else.”

Halfway across the world, south of the Equator, the air is chilly and dry, and the skies are sunny and crystal clear. The landscape, an unending horizon of brown grass and desert sands, has its own unique sense of beauty. Having lived here for three decades, Felix has adapted to Australia's dangerous and “backwards” environment, even going so far as to say it strengthened him as a person. Isolating and rough as those thirty years had been, he cannot imagine living anywhere else.

Which is why he finds it shocking when he finds an unsuspecting visitor in his house. Sitting on  _his_  chair. Drinking coffee brewed by  _his_  wife. “Felix, this is Dr. Alterheim,” his wife, Miriam, introduces the stranger in her chipper voice, as if they'd been friends forever. “Dante came all the way from America just to see you. Isn't that simply amazing? Well, I'll be off to town; I'll be borrowing your car. Play nice, boys!”

The door shuts behind him, and he steps over and plops over on the chair across from the other man. He gives a cold, steely look at Dr. Alterheim, playing with his hair in a carefree manner. “Faustus, it's so good to see you! It's been a while, hasn't it, brother,” says the doctor, immediately slipping into his native tongue. “How are you these days?”

“I'm doing just fine,” Felix—or rather, Faustus—replies with a growl. “What's your business, Dante? I've sold you all the stuff I had last month. It'll be a while before I can make more.”

“Oh, no need for that. I have perfected the formula, so I will no longer be needing your services. I came to discuss something else.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“I came in to report about Mortimer Mundy. You haven't heard from him since he ran off, have you?”

He stammers, gobsmacked. “No. I haven't. He's still alive?”

“Yes, alive and well. He's a spitting image of his mother, that boy. Always optimistic and full of energy—like ein Welpe!”

“Sounds like he's doing well.”

“Yes, he's turning into a fine young man. But we both know adulthood comes with its sacrifices. In time, his heart will harden, and he'll either close himself off or go completely mad. Though the latter seems more likely, especially after that early exposure to the prototype...”

Faustus reaches out and grabs Dante by the collar. “I will not let you turn Mort into one of his guinea pigs!”

“It's much too late for that, dear brother. From the moment I put my seed into your wife-to-be, he was destined to go down the same downward path I have. It's written in our blood.” Not a moment too soon, Faustus punches his lights out. Stumbling, with blood on his face, Dante still manages to pull a smile across his face. “Hm. Perhaps Mort has more in common with you than I thought. Well, I'll be off now. Lebewohl!”

In an instant, Dante disappears from sight, leaving Faustus—once again Felix—to dwell in his sorrow.


	37. What You Are in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus. I was buried in work, plus another side project and life in general. But thanks so much for your patience. This chapter's a bit of a breather compared to the last one... or is it?

Up on the rooftop, Mort looks up at the stars looming over the horizon, reflecting the forest's seemingly endless nature. Between Thunder Mountain and Badlands, the former definitely wins out. Part of him even wishes he can stay here. But there's a lot of unfinished business back at Teufort, he's aware of that.

A whooshing sound, followed by that of cracking bones, tickles his ears, but he does not turn around. “Oi, Vally,” he greets casually. “Had a good run?”

“You could say that,” Valdo's voice answers. “Without a steady supply of blood, I'm pretty weak in the daytime. But the trees provide much cover, so I can stay in my bat form long enough to rest. It's a slight advantage I have over purebloods.”

“You said there's a monster in Teufort. Is he also a vampire?”

“Yes, but you shouldn't worry; they're not around these parts. And while I was on the bus, I smelled another presence. It smelled familiar somehow, but I couldn't pin it down. Until then, I would be wary of your pals.”

“You can sniff out monsters? Cool!”

“Anyone with magic in their blood can sense the supernatural. The more aware you are, the more sensitive you are to its presence. But you're just a mundane, so you wouldn't know of it if it hit you in the face.”

“Hmm. Well, that would explain why I didn't know 'bout you 'til you transformed. Still, I bet it would be cool if I could.”

“Trust me, it isn't. It becomes harder to put your faith in people, knowing they could turn into some horrifying monster the next minute.”

“Yeah, but then you can learn to deal with it, help them out with their problems—”

“Or you can put yourself right in the face of danger.”

That shuts Mort up. No point in arguing against the truth. He doesn’t know how vampires and zombies work, and it’s unlikely the books and movies that made them famous would prove useful.

He doesn’t have much time to ruminate on the subject, as a familiar voice calls out his name. “Mort, there you are!” Down below, Alan waves at Mort, who waves back. “Come on down, I wanna show you something!”

Al leads Mort to the garage, with its four walls decorated with signs and maps of local spots, and tables and desks stacked high with books and gun parts. The Sniper is vaguely reminded of the garage back in Teufort; both rooms are more fit for storing junk than cars. Hunched over one of the desks is Mara, tinkering away at something. “Hey, Mara! I'm just here to pick up the Sapper, if that's alright with you.” No reaction. “Mara?”

After a moment, he mutters, “In the back, on the second shelf.”

“Oh, I see it. Merci!” He retrieves a teddy bear-like object and a box with some switches and levers from one of the shelves and shows it off. “It's a project I've been working on the past few days. I'm gonna bring it to the Steam Workshop and maybe get rich and famous. I'm a revolutionary in the making!”

Mort blinks and scratches his chin. “Uh, that's nice. But, uh, what is it?”

“This? It's a remote-controlled Sapper. I can move it around and have it sap a Sentry from a distance. Watch.” He sets down the teddy bear and toggles the switches on the box, bringing it to life.

Mort watches the bear in amazement. “That's so cute! Yer gonna be a shoo-in fer best invention.” Kneeling down, he grabs hold of the bear's paws and pretends to lead it in a dance.

His freckled cheeks burn a bright pink. “Y-you think so? I mean, I know I will!”

“Not if I get there first.” Al and Mort turn to Mara, holding a half-finished revolver-like gun. “I'm thinking about submitting to the Workshop myself. At Rami's suggestion, of course.”

“Then I guess that makes you two rivals. Or would that be friends? Friendly rivals?”

Al giggles and picks up the bear. “Well, we are on the same team, so it probably doesn't matter. May the best inventor win.” The bear holds out a paw, which Mara shakes with two fingers. To Mort, seeing the two of them get along is definitely worth smiling about.

What's not worth smiling about, however, is bumping into Vincent right after. The look on his face could murder someone. “Hello, Mort. Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah. How 'bout you?” He knows that's a stupid question to ask, but he says it, anyway.

He pauses before replying, “I suppose so. We did win, after all.” Mort blinks, astonished. “You were pretty stupid out there, running in the middle of a fight... but good job.” In an even more surprising turn of events, he smiles.

The Sniper, unsure how to react, mimics the expression. “Uh, thanks. You were great, too.”

“Nah. If you didn't jump right in, nothing would've been done.”

“Aw, it's nothin'. Hey, what started that fight, anyway? I know yer on opposite ends, but that seemed awfully random.”

The Scout's expression falters instantly. “It's... Just me doing my job.” He turns his gaze elsewhere, and doesn't speak further.

The rest of the night passes without event. With Valdo away and everyone else in bed, there's not much for a restless bloke to do. After spending a couple of hours tossing and turning, Mort gathers the motivation to leave the cabin to pursue whatever piques his curiosity. He wanders around the area, waving at the occasional merc on night shift, until he spots a light coming from the infirmary window. _What's Ellen doing up this late?_ The thought crosses his mind as he approaches the door.

Inside, Ellen is sorting out the documents and photos, when a knock on the door startles her into dropping them. “Just a second,” she calls out while hastily picking them up and shoving them in the desk drawer. She opens the door, and lets out a soft, “Oh. It's you. What are you up to this time?”

“Bored an' restless. How 'bout you?”

“Just getting some paperwork done, like usual. Come on in!” She offers him some coffee as he finds a chair to sit on. “Good thing you came here now. I wanted to have a talk with you.”

“With me? About what?”

“Nothing much. Just getting to know you. Think of this place as a home to secrets. Anything you say in here will be safe with me.”

He hesitates before replying. “Well, my name's Mortimer Mundy, I just turned thirty in April, an' I like animals and cute men.”

_ Cute men? _ Ellen is not unfamiliar with men and women confessing their admiration for people of the same sex, but to hear it said so bluntly is nothing short of brow-raising. “Interesting. Tell me, is there anyone you're interested in? A 'special someone', perhaps?”

“W-well, there's this one guy... He's an old friend of mine, since we were really small. He's strong, smart, and great with kids. An' he's real handsome, too!” His cheeks turn bright red. “If only he wasn't on playin' the other team.”

“You mean he's straight?” _That certainly would be tragic_ , she sighs, reminiscing her past relationships.

“No, I mean literally on the other team. He works for RED.”

Ellen almost spits out her drink. “ _RED?_ I mean, what an unusual predicament. Has this affected your relationship?”

“Yeah, but not really. I went over to his house recently. His bed's really soft!”

“I see. You two seem to be doing well. How's work faring for you, by the way?”

He shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Vince seems okay with me. Though things're getting more complicated with Al an' Shiro. Shiro likes Al, an' Al likes me, an' they both got split personalities, an'—”

“Hold on. What was that last bit?”

“Nothing, nothing! Just me running my mouth off.”

“Hmm. Let me tell you something, Mortimer.” She slams her hand on a stack of folders on her desk. “In these folders lie information on every single person working for BLU, and then some. Every last fact I've scrapped together is in here; if not, I look for it. It might seem a bit much to you, but as a doctor, I need to know as much as possible about my patients, for their well-being.”

“So this chat...”

“Is my way of gathering information. No different than what we do every day at work. Call me nosy, even manipulative, but _this_ is my full-time job.”

A lump forms in Mort's throat, and he spills everything. “I'm scared for them. All of 'em. Is there anything I can do?”

“You came to the right person. Unfortunately, I cannot do it alone. You'll have to convince them to trust me—which might not be an easy task. But they clearly trust you enough to tell you their secrets, so maybe it will. Now, knowing my secret, I have to ask: _do_ you _trust_ me _?_ ” Ellen stares long and hard, hoping to dig into Mortimer's mind for whatever she can find. But what should normally come easy to her is becoming a chore, creating a migraine and a searing sensation in her eyes. She breaks eye contact and rubs her temples.

“Elly, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaks. “I probably shouldn't have asked so many questions. How are you feeling?”

“Better than ever. Thanks, mate.” He embraces her and runs off. As the door closes shut, she cannot help but smile, all her physical and emotional pain suddenly washed away.

Early the next morning, Alan sets out to shower when he finds himself in a predicament. “W-what's the meaning of this?” He points at the signs on the bathroom doors. Instead of the usual man and woman, the signs depict two similar-looking figures, one with a hat and one without.

“It's exactly as it looks,” Ellen answers. “Status in this business is determined by hats; the bigger and flashier your collection, the better. Call it local tradition.”

“Some 'tradition',” Al mutters under his breath. He enters the “no hat” bathroom to wash himself, then changes into a sky blue blouse and navy blue pants. After tying the blue ribbon in his hair, he steps out of the stall and bumps into something. “Hey, watch where you're going; this is a brand-new shirt!”

Right away, a timid voice stutters, “Sorry.”

Al's eyes meet the blue eyes of another, familiar face—Vincent's. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in the other room?”

“Well, I sort of lost my old cap during the last fight. But it made my head itch, so it's probably for the best.” Scratching his head, he laughs nervously. “Uh, nice outfit. You look really cute today. Bow's a nice touch.”

“Thanks. Um, I should go. Bye!” He steps out and makes way for the bunk room. On the bottom bunk is Mortimer, sleeping like a baby. Watching him makes Al's eyes droop. Such a shame he has to interrupt this lovely moment. “Wakey-wakey, artichokey,” he sings as he rips the covers off the Sniper. There's a bit of movement, but no signs of waking up. “Mort?” He grabs one of Mort's hands and pulls him up, feeling a slight chill in his skin. “Mort, please, wake up!”

Slowly, his eyes blink open. Mort stretches and lets out a loud yawn. “Al? What're you doin' up? It's, like, three A.M..”

“Mort, it's a quarter 'til seven. How long were you sleeping?”

“Mm. I dunno. A while, I guess. Can you turn out the light?”

Al, not wanting to bother him further, adjusts the window shades to block out the sunlight. “You don't look so good. Maybe you should sleep a bit more.”

Mort hesitates, then nods and flops back onto his pillow. Alan leaves the room, rubbing his hands for warmth. Was _he always that cold? He seemed alright yesterday, but now..._ He huffs a breath of warm air into his hands and rubs them some more. _A little bit of rest should do the trick. I hope._

Shortly after, Vincent enters the room, in search of the bandages he left in his sports bag. The wraps on his arms are already losing their adhesive, becoming itchier by the minute. But that will have to wait a bit. He tears the covers off Mort and drags him out of bed. The Sniper mumbles something about “five more minutes” and dozes off, turning into dead weight. Vince grumbles and carries on, only to be blocked by a significant obstacle.

“Hello, _Wimpcent_.” Valdo approaches Vince, who recoils with every step. “Didn't expect to see me, did you?”

“How did you get in here?”

“I have my ways,” he answers with a crooked smile. “I've been hanging around this area for a short while, but I found some dirt that I think you'll like.”

“I doubt that.”

“You've changed since I last saw you. You always were a bit uptight, but lately, you're absolutely reckless. Either you're losing your touch, or something's triggered you.”

Vince sets Mort on the floor and puts up his dukes. “There's nothing wrong with me!” He throws a punch.

Valdo, unfazed, avoids it. “So you are triggered. Not by something, but somebody. I wonder...” He dodges another hit, then grabs hold of the Vince's collar and lifts him. “What if I told you who Mundy _really_ is?” The BLU Scout struggles in vain to free himself, and the RED tightens his grip. “I knew it: Mundy's the magic word. And I'm more than willing to bet on who gave you that order.”

“If you think of hurting Ellen...”

“Don't you worry one bit about her. It's Mortimer I want. He's got connections to the Alterheim name, and he doesn't even know it.” His gaze turns briefly to the unconscious man on the floor. “For that, I am willing to risk my life to protect him.”

Valdo drops Vince, who scowls in return. “You're willing to throw your life away for the man who ruined it?”

“Oh, don't be melodramatic. Dante saved me when I needed it most—unlike _some_ people.” He turns away. “Take good care of Mort; he may be your only chance. _Kaninchen_.” In front of Vince's very eyes, he transforms into a bat and flies through a small crack in the open window.

The second Valdo is gone, Mortimer wakes up with a yawn. “What a weird dream. Vally was in it, an' he was talkin' funny.” Blink. “Vinci, yer arm!” He grabs hold of Vince's arm, its wrappings falling off, revealing numerous scars. Had he not pulled away right after, Mort would likely have noticed the scars are far from recent.

“Don't worry about it,” Vince says while covering up his scars. “It's nothing important.” He gives a confident, buck-toothed smile. “The mission's already underway, but we can still spectate. Wanna come?” He helps him up and they head out to find a good view. Vince's memories of the recent past is a bit fuzzy, but he finally remembers why he looks up to Mort. Jealousy aside, he can't imagine ever hating him. _Mort is Mort, right?_

 


End file.
